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V\-.: 



Poems 

by 

Robert Burns 



With Index & Glossary 




TAM O' SHANTER 



GLASGOW 
DAVID BRYCE & SON 

NEW YORK: FREDERICK A. STOKES CO. 




A 



GLASGOW 

PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BV 

ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD. 

MCMVI. 



INDEX, 

COMBINING 

TITLES WITH FIRST LINES. 

*** In cases where the title of a song, or short piece of verse, is taken from 
the first line, generally the first line only is given. Titles beginning with an 
article are given without the "a," "an," or "the" prefixed. Titles are in 
capitals, first lines in small letters, first lines of choruses in italics. 



Page 

Accept the gift a friend sincere, 162 
Addresses : Apology for mis- 
conduct, 165 ; Beelzebub to 
President of Highland Society, 
207 ; to W. Creech, 167 ; to the 
Deil, 31 ; to Edinburgh, 102 ; 
Spoken by Miss Fontenelle, 
154 ; to an ottended Lady, 239 ; 
to the Shade o Thomson, the 
Poet. 134; to the Toothache, 
140 ; to W. Tjrtler, 158 ; to the 
Unco Guid, or the Rigidly 
Righteous, 50. — -See also under 
EPISTLES and To. 
Admiring Nature in her wildest 

grace, 140 

Ae day, as Death, that gruesome 

carl 231 

J fi.<f for those by law protected ! 67 
Again the silent wheels of time, 93 
A guid New- Year I wish thee, 

Maggie' 68 

A Highland lad my love was 

born, 62 

A little, upright, pert, tart, trip- 
ping wight, .... 187 
All devil as I am, a damned 

wretch 225 

All hail ! inexorable lord ! . .92 
Among the heathy hills and 

ragged woods 142 

And we're a noddin', . . . 224 
An honest man here lies at rest, 166 
ANSWER TO A POETICAL 
EPISTLE, SENT TO THE 
AUTHOR BY A TAILOR, . 225 

Answer to Verses Ad- 
dressed TO the Poet by 

THE GUIDWIFE of WAU- 

CHOPE, . . . . . 171 

As cauld a wind as ever blew, . 221 
As father Adam first was fool'd, 228 
Ask why God made the gem so 

small, 229 

As Mailie, an' her lambs the- 

gither 34 

As on the banks o' wand'ring 

Nith, 201 

As Tarn the Chapman on a day, 220 



Page 
At Brownhill we always get 

dainty good cheer, . . . 239 
A' ye wha live by sowps o' drink, 95 
Auld chuckle Reekie's sair dis- 

trest, 167 

Auld comrade dear, and brither 

sinner 194 

AULD Farmer's New-Year 

Morning Salutation to 

HIS Auld Mare Maggie, . 68 
Author's Earnest Cry and 

Prayer 9 

Bank Note, Lines written 

ON A, 217 

Bard's Epitaph, . . .235 
Beauteous rose-bud, young and 

gray 134 

Below these stanes lie Jamie's 

banes, 234 

Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardoness, 234 
Blest be M'Murdo to his latest 

day 238 

BOOK-WORMS 215 

Bright ran thy line, O Galloway, 230 

Brigs of Ayr, .... 23 

BURNS— Extempore, . . 218 
BURNS, Lines on the Por- 
trait OF Miss, . . .233 

But now his radiant course is run, 117 
But rarely seen since Nature's 

birth, . . . ... . 220 



30 
224 



233 
81 



Calf, 

Cats like Kitchen, 

Cease ye prudes, your envious 

railing 

COTTARS Saturday Night, 
Creech, Lines Addressed 

TO William, 167 ; sketch of, 

187. 
Curs'd be the man, the poorest 

wretch in life, .... 
Curse on ungrateful man that 

can be pleas'd 



Daer, An Interview with 
lord 152 



VI 



INDEX. 



34 

135 

97 
190 

79 
40 



Page 

Dear , I'llgie ye some advice, 240 

Dear Smith, the slee'est, paukie 

thief, 37 

Death and Doctor Horn- 
book 19 

Death and Dying Words 

OF poor Mailie, the 

Author's only Pet Ewe, 

Death of John M'Leod, 

ESQ 

Dedication to Gavin 

Hamilton, Esq 

Delia, 

Despondency 

Dream 

Drumlanrig woods. On 

the Destruction of, , 201 
Dweller in yon dungeon dark, . 116 

Earl's Portrait, Verses 
On an, 184 

Earth'd up here lies an imp o' 
hell, 205 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat I . 102 

Elegies : On Capt. Matthew 
Henderson, 117 ; on the Death 
of Peg Nicholson, 214 ; on the 
Death of Robert Ruisseaux 
[Robert Bums], 170; on the late 
Miss Burnet, 151 ; on the year 
1788, 188. 

EPIGRAMS: On Captain Grose, 
234 ; on a Henpecked Squire, 
228 ; on a Noted Coxcomb, 
220 ; on Elphinstone's transla- 
tion of Martial, 234 ; on Him- 
self, 238 ; " when , de- 
ceased," 237 ; " Written at 
Inveraray," 229. 

EPISTLES: To Dr. Blacklock, 
148; to Davie, a Brother- Poet, 
[i.e., David Sillars], 74, 142 ; 
from Esopus to Maria, 196; to 
John Goudie, 193; to Robert 
Graham, 121, 123, 166, 197 ; to 
Gavin Hamilton, 182 ; to John 
Kennedy, 208; to John Lap- 
raik, 103, 106, 172 ; to Major 
Logan, 202 ; to Mr. MacAdam, 
183; to Rev. John M'Math, 
176; to Mr. Mitchell, 164; to 
Hugh Parker, 206 ; to John 
Rankine, 112; to W. Simpson, 
108 ; to James Smith, 37 ; to 

iames Tennant, 194; to a Young 
"riend, 93.— See also under 
Addresses and To. 
Epitaphs : For R. Aiken, 235 ; 
on J. Bushby, 237; on a Country 
Laird, 234 ; on J. Dove, 236 ; 
on a celebrated RuUng Elder, 
235 : On a Friend, 166 ; on 
Gavin Hamilton, 235 ; on a 
Henpecked Squire, 228 ; on 
Holy Willie, 181 ; on Jessie 
Lewars, 220 ; on one nick- 
named "The Marquis," 238; 
on W. Nicol, 225 ; on a Noisy 
Polemic. 234 ; on the Poet's 
Daughter, 205 ; on the Poet's 
Father, 236; on G. Richardson, 
205 ; on a Wag in Mauchline, 

237 ; on Walter R , [i.e., 

Riddel], 238 ; on Wee Johnny, 

235- 
Expect na', Sir, m this narration, 97 



Page 

Extemporaneous verses : 

Answer to Tavern Invitation, 
227 ; Bacon, an Innkeeper, 239; 
in Court of Session, 233 ; Ex- 
cise and Muses, 231 ; " How 
daur ye ca' me howlet-faced," 
238 ; in a Lady's Pocket-book, 
227 ; Capt. Riddel, 235 ; Mrs. 
Riddel's Birthday, 161 ; Mrs. 
Maria Riddel's Tongue, 225 ; 
W. Smellie, 160; Mr. Syme, 163. 

Fair empress of the Poet's soul, ]86 
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 96 
Fair maid, you need not take the 

hint, 238 

Fair the face of orient day, . 190 
False flatterer, Hope, away ! . 170 
Farewell, dear Friend 1 may guid 

luck hit you, . . . . 204 
Farewell, old Scotia's bleak do- 
mains, 204 

FERGUSSON, the PoeT: In- 
scription on his Tombstone, 
168 ; Verses written beneath 
his Portrait, 189. 
Fill me with the rosy wine, . 221 

Fintry, my stay in worldly strife, 197 
Fontenelle, Address 

Spoken by, . . . . 154 
For a' That and a' That, . 66 
For Lords or Kings I dinna 

mourn, 188 

FRAGMENTS: "All devil as I 
am," 225; "Now health for- 
sakes," 222 ; Prince Chas. Ed. 
Stuart, 170; "The Winter it is 
past," 353. 
Friday first's the day appointed, 239 
Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, 164 
From those drear solitudes and 
frowzy cells, .... 196 

Galloway, On the Seat of 
Lord, 230 

Grace : Before dinner, 169 ; be- 
fore meat, 239 ; Selkirk Grace, 
214. 

Grant me, indulgent Heaven, 
that I may live 227 

Grose, Capt. Francis : Epi- 
gram on, 234 ; His Peregrina- 
tions, 132. 
Guid mornin' to your Majesty, . 40 
Guid speed an' furder to you, 
Johnnie, 172 

Hail Poesiel thou nymph re- 
serv'd ! 156 

Hail, thairm - inspirin', rattlin' 
Willie ! 202 

Hallowe'en, .... 54 

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the 
Deil? 51 

Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crawlin' 
ferlie ! 100 

Health to the Maxwells' vet'ran 
Chief! 185 

Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither 
Scots, 132 

He clenched his pamphlets in his 
fist, 233 

Henpeck'd Husband, . . 228 

Here Brewer Gabriel's fire's ex- 
tinct 205 

Here comes Burns, . . . 238 



INDEX. 



vit 



Page 
Here Holy Willie's satr worn clay, i8i 
Here lies a mock Marquis, whose 

titles were shamm'd, . . 238 
Here lies a rose, a budding rose, 205 
Here lies John Bushby, honest 

man ! 237 

Here lies Johnnie Pidgeon, . 236 
Here lie Willie Michie's banes, . 232 
Here Stuarts once in glory 

reign 'd, 205 

Here, where the Scottish Muse 

immortal lives 155 

[Highland Welcome], . . .169 

Holy Fair 13 

Holy Willie's Prayer, . 178 
Honest Will to heaven is gane, . 240 
How cold is that bosom which 

folly once fired, . . . 160 

How daur ye ca' me howlet- 

faced 238 

How shall I sing Drumlanrig's 

grace? 200 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix 

and unite 147 

Humble Petition of Bru ar 

Water to the Noble 

Duke of Athole, . . 136 
Husband, Husband, cease 

your Strife, . . .253 

I am a bard of no regard, . . 66 
/ am a fiddler to my trade, . 64 

I am a keeper of the law, . , 230 
I am a son of Mars, who have 

been in many wars, ... 60 
I burn, I burn, as when thro' 

ripen'd corn 219 

I call no goddess to inspire my 

strains, 166 

If you rattle along like your mis- 
tress's tongue 225 

I gat your letter, winsome Willie, 108 
I hold it. Sir, my bounden duty, 182 
I lang hae thought, my youthfu' 

friend, . . . , • 93 
ILLEGITIMATE CHILD, POET'S 

WELCOME TO HIS, . . 193 

I mind it weel, in early date, . 171 
I'm three times doubly o'er your 

debtor, 142 

Impromptu.— iSee Extempo- 
raneous Vekses. 
I murder hate by field or flood, . 232 
Inhuman man ! curse on thy 

barb'rous art 133 

In politics if thou wouldst mix, . 231 
Inscriptions: For an Altar, 
160 ; On a Goblet, 215 ; on Fer- 
gusson's Tombstone, t68; on 
a Platter, 237 ; on a Tumbler, 
240. See also WlNDOW-lN- 
SCRIPTIONS. 
Instead of a Song, boys, I'll give 

you a Toast, .... 229 
In this strange land, this uncouth 

clime, 206 

In vain would Prudence, with 

decorous sneer, . . . 219 

Inventory, . . . . 143 
In wood and wild, ye warbling 

throng 210 

I once was a maid, tho' I cannot 

tell when, 61 

' Iram coram dago.' — /See GROSE. 
I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of 
worth 145 



Page 
Is there a whim-inspired fool, . 235, 
rve ta'en the gold, I've been 
enroll'd, 65 

JOLLY BEGGARS, . . . 59 

Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief, 232 
Kilmarnock Wabsters, fidge and 

claw, 28 

Kind Sir, I've read your paper 

through, 151 

KiRK OF LaMINGTON, . . 221 

Kirk's Alarm, . . .138 
Know thou, O stranger to the 
fame, 235 

Lai de daudle, etc., ... 60 
Lament for James, Earl 

OF Glencairn, . , .125 
Lament him, Mauchline hus- 
bands a', 237 

Lament in rhyme, lament in 

prose, . . . . .35 

Lament occasioned by a 

Friend's unfortunate 

Amour, . . . . .77 
Lament of Mary Queen of 

Scots on the approach 

OF Spring 120 

Lament, when about to 

LEAVE Scotland, . . 190 
Late crippl'd of an arm, and 

now a leg, 123 

Let me ryke up to dight that 

tear 64 

Let other heroes boast their 

scars, 223 

Let other poets raise a fracas, . o 

Liberty, 169 

Life 165 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a 

prize, . , . . . . 151 
Light lay the earth on Billy's 

breast, 220 

Like Esop's lion. Burns says. 

Sore I feel, .... 206 

Logan Braes 249 

Lone on the bleaky hills the 

straying flocks 209 

Long life, my Lord, an' health 

be yours 207 

Lord, to account who dares 

Thee call 239 

Loudon Manse, Lines 

written at, . . . .210 
Loyal Natives' Verses, . 217 
Lying at a Reverend 

Friend's House one 

Night, 88 

Man was Made to Mourn, . 85 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave, 221 
Monody on a Lady Famed 

FOR her Caprice, . . 160 

My bonnie lass, I work in brass, 65 

My bottle is my holy pool, . 227 
My curse upon you venom'd 

stang, 140 

My honour'd Colonel,deep I feel, 165 

My lord, I know your noble ear, 136 
My lov'd, my honour'd, much 

respected friend ! . . . 8r 

Nae heathen name shall I prefix, 192 
Nature's Law, . . .223 
New Year's Day, 1790, . . 159 



Vlll 



INDEX. 



Page 
No more of your guests, be they 

titled or not, .... 163 
No more, ye warblers of the 

wood, no more, . . . 161 

No sculptur'd marble here, nor 

pompous lay, .... 168 
No song nor dance I bring from 

yon great city 150 

No Stewart art thou, Galloway, . 230 
November chill blaws loud wi' 

angry sough 81 

Now health forsakes that angel 

face, 222 

Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse, 208 
Now Nature hangs her mantle 

green, 120 

Now Robin lies in his last lair, . 170 

O a' ye pious godly flocks, . . 174 
O, could I give thee India's 

wealth 210 

O Death, hadst thou but spar'd 

his life, 228 

O Death ! thou tyrant, fell and 

bloody! 117 

Ode, Sacred to the Mem- 
ory OF Mrs. Oswald, . 116 

O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of 
the lone mountain straying, . 190 

Of aU the numerous ills that hurt 
our peace, .... 218 

O Goudie ! terror of the Whigs, 193 

O had the malt thy strength of 
mind, 163 

Oh I had each Scot of ancient 
times, 234 

Old Winter.with his frosty beard, 161 

O Lord, when hunger pinches 
sore 239 

On a SCHOOLMASTER, . . 232 

ON A SCOTCH Bard, gone to 

THE WEST INDIES, . . 95 

ON A SUICIDE, . . . .205 
Once fondly lov'd and still re- 

member'd dear, . . . 192 
On Commissary Goldie's 

Brains 239 

On Mr. W. Cruikshank, . 240 
One ^ueen Artemisia, as old 

stones tell 228 

On hearing that there 

WAS Falsehood in Rev. 

Dr. B 'S VERY LOOKS, . 232 

On Himself 238 

On Miss JESSY Lewars, . 220 
On Mr. M'Murdo, . . .238 
On peace and rest my mind was 

bent, 358 

ON ROBERT Riddel, . . 215 
On Scaring some Water 

FOWL 181 

On Miss J. Scott, of Ayr, . 234 

On Seeing a Wounded 
Hare limp by me, . . 133 

On Seeing Miss Fonte- 
nelle, 214 

On Seeing the Beautiful 
Seat of Lord Gallo- 
way, 230 

On Stirling 205 

On the Birth of a Posthu- 
mous Child, . . . .141 

On the Death of a Lap- 

DOG, 210 

On the Death of Robert 
dundas. Esq 209 



Page 
ON THE Death of Sir James 

Hunter Blair, . . .191 
On the Destruction of 

THE woods near DRUM- 

lanrig 201 

Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd 

with care, 79 

Ordination, .... 28 
O rough, rude, ready-witted 

Rankine, . . . . 112 

Orthodox, Orthodox, . 211 
Orthodox, Orthodox, wha believe 

in John Knox, .... 138 
O Thou, dread Pow'r, who 

reign 'st above 88 

O Thou, great Being I what 

Thou art, 89 

O thou pale Orb, that silent 

shines, 77 

O Thou, the first, the greatest 

friend 90 

O Thou unknown. Almighty 

Cause, 87 

O Thou wha in the Heavens 

dost dwell, .... 178 

O thou ! whatever title suit thee, 31 
O Thou, who kindly dost provide, 169 
O thou whom Poetry abhors, . 234 
O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, . 50 

Pastoral Poetry, . . 156 
Peg Nicholson was a gude bay 

mare 214 

POET'S Welcome to his Il- 
legitimate Child, . . 193 
POOR Mailie's Elegy, . . 35 

Poverty, 231 

Prayers : In Prospect of 

Death, 87 ; Stanzas on the 

same occasion, 88 ; under 

Violent Anguish, 89. 

Prince Charles Edward 

Stuart 170 

Prologues, . 150, 153, 187, 222 
PSALMS, . . . , 89, 90 

Rash mortal, and slanderous 
poet, thy name, . . . 205 

RECOVERY OF Jessie Lewars,22o 

Remorse, 218 

Reply to the Minister of 

Gladsmuir 206 

Revered defender of beauteous 

Stuart 158 

Rights of Woman, . . 153 
Right, Sir, your text I'll prove it 

true, 30 

Rusticity's ungainly form, . . 239 

Sad thy tale, thou idle page, , 135 
Say, Sages, what's the charm on 

earth 220 

SCOTCH DRINK, ... 6 

See! the smoking bowl before 

us, 67 

Sic a reptile was Wat, . . 238 

Sing, hey, my braw John High- 

landman I 63 

Sing, Lai de lal, etc. , . . .61 
Sing on, sweet Thrush, upon the 

leafless bough, .... 163 
Sir, as your mandate did request, 143 
Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, . 183 
Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, 62 
Sketches : Inscribed to Fox, 

147; of W. Creech, . . .187 



INDEX, 



IX 



Page 
SOLEMN LEAGUE AND COVE- 
NANT, 215 

Some books are lies frae end to 

end, 19 

Some hae meat and canna eat, . 214 
SONNETS: On Hearing a Thrush 
SinsT, 163 ; on the Death of 
Robert Riddel, 161. 
Spare me thy vengeance, Gallo- 
way, 231 

Still anxious to secure your par- 
tial favour 154 

STIRLING, 205 

Sv»?eet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle 

love, 141 

Sweet naivete of feature, . . 214 

Talk not to me of savages, . 220 

Tam o' Shanter, . . .127 
Tam Samson's Elegy, , . 51 
Tam the Chapman, . . 220 
That there is falsehood in his 

looks, 232 

The cats like kitchen, . . 224 
The Devil got notice that Grose 

was a-dying, .... 234 
Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths 

among, 169 

The friend whom wild from 

wisdom's way, .... 165 
The graybeard, Old Wisdom, 

may boast of his treasures, . 233 
The King's most humble ser- 
vant I, 227 

The lamp of day, with ill-presag- 
ing glare, 191 

The man, in life wherever plac'd, 89 
The night was still and o'er the 

hill, , 210 

There's death in the cup— sae 

beware, 215 

There's Naethin' like the 

Honest Nappy, , . . 222- 
The simple Bard, rough at the 

rustic plough, .... 23 
The solemn League and Cove- 
nant, 215 

The sun had clos'd the winter 

day 43 

The wind blew hollow frae the 

hills 125 

The wintry west extends his blast, 80 
Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 162 
This day Time winds th' ex- 
hausted chain, .. . . . 159 
This wot ye all whom it concerns. 152 
Thou flattering mark of friend- 
ship kind, 221 

Thou of an independent mind, . 160 
Thou's welcome, wean ! mis- 
chanter fa' me, . . . 193 
Thou, who thy honour as thy 

God rever'st 127 

Thou whom chance may hither 

lead, 114 

Though fickle fortune has de- 
ceived me, .... 219 
Through and through the in- 
spired leaves, .... 215 
'Tis friendship's pledge, my 

young, fair friend, . . -157 
Toad-Eater, . . . .218 

Toasts 221, 229 

To , , . . 218, 237 

To a Haggis 96 

to a Lady, . .238 



Page 
TO A LOUSE, . . . .100 
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, . 91 

TO A MOUSE, .... 70 

To A Painter, . . . .240 
To A Young Lady, . . .155 
To A YOUNG Lady, Miss 

Jessy Lewars, Dumfries, 162 
To Clarinda, . . . .186 
To W.Creech ("Willie's awa'"), 167 
To Crochallan came, . . . 160 
To MISS Cruikshank, a 

very Young Lady, . . 134 
TO Miss Ferrier, . . .192 
To Mrs. Kemble, . . .232 
To Miss Jessy Lewars, . 162 
To Miss Logan, with 

Beattie's Poems, . . 93 
To Mr. Mackenzie, Sur- 
geon, Mauchline, . . 239 
TO John M'Murdo, Esq., . 210 
to Dr. Maxwell, . . .221 
To Mr. Maxwell, of Ter- 
raughty, on His Birth- 
day, 185 

To J. Rankine, . . 230, 231 
To Riddel, much lamented man, 215 

TO RUIN, 92 

TO Mr. Syme, . . . .163 
TO John Taylor, . . .217 
TWA Dogs, . . . . i 
TWA Herds, . . . .174 
'Twas in that place o' Scotland's 

Isle, 1 

'Twas where the birch and sound- 
ing thong are ply'd, . . 186 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn, . 13 
Upon that night when Fairies 
light, 54 

Verses : Intended for an Earl's 
Portrait, 184; to a Young Lady, 

^55- 
VISIONS: The Muse of Coila 

and the Poet, .... 43 
VOWELS 186 

Wae worth thy power, thou 

cursed leaf, .... 217 
WATER FOWL, ON SCARING, . 181 
WeWe a' noddin', .... 224 
We came na here to view your 

warks, 229 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped 

flow'r, 91 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous 

beastie, . . . _ . .70 
What ails ye now, ye lousie bitch, 225 
What dost thou in that mansion 

fair? 230 

What needs this din about the 

town o' Lon'on, . . . 187 
What of earls with whom you 

have supt 218 

When biting Boreas, fell and 

doure, 71 

When by a generous public's 

kind acclaim 222 

When chapman billies leave the 

street, 127 

When chill November's surly 

blast 8s 

When Death's dark stream I 

ferry o'er, 169 

When , deceased, to the 

devil went down, . . . 237 



When lyart leaves bestrow the 

yird, 

When Nature her great master 

piece design'd, ... 
While at the stook the shearers 

cow'r, 
While briers an' woodbines bud 

ding green, .... 
While Europe's eye is fixed on 

mighty things, . 
While new-ca'd kye rowte at the 

stake, .... 

While virgin Spring by Eden'; 

flood 

While winds frae afF Ben Lo 

mond blaw, ... 

Whistle 

Whoe'er he be that sojourns 

here 

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, 

know, 
Whose is that noble, dauntless 

brow? 
Why am I loth to leave this 

earthly scene ? . 
Why, ye tenants of the lake, 



Page 
59 

121 
176 
103 

106 

74 
145 

229 

235 

184 

88 
181 



Page 
Wi' braw new branks in meikle 

pride 215 

WILLIE Chalmers, . . 215 
Window-Inscriptions : Cat- 
ron Inn. 229; Globe Tavern, 
Dumiries, 233 ; King's Arms, 
Dumfries, 232. 

Winter, 80 

Winter Night, ... 71 
With Pegasus upon a day, . . 217 
Wow. but your letter made me 
vauntiel 148 

Ye Irish lords, ye knights, an' 

squires, 9 

Ye maggots, feast on Nicol's brain, 225 
Ye men of wit and wealth, why 

all this sneering, . . . 232 
Ye sons of sedition, give ear to 

my song 217 

Ye true ' Loyal Natives' attend 

to my song, .... 218 
Your News and Review, sir, I've 

read through and through, sir, 184 
You're welcome, Willie Stewart, 240 
Yours this moment I unsezil, 218 



GLOSSARY. 



The following rules should be noted regarding the distinctions 
between English and Scottish orthography in words which are 
originally the same, having only one letter changed for another, 
or sometimes a letter taken away or added. 

1. In many words ending with an I after an a, o, or u, the 
letter I is rarely sounded ; thus all=a' ; call=ca' ; small=sma' ; 
false=/aMse ; malt=maut ; full=/w' ; pull=pu' ; etc. 

2. The I changes to a w or i* after a or o, and is frequently 
dropped before another consonant ; thus ha.]ia.=bawm ; balk 
=bauk ; boll=6ow ; poll=pow ; etc. 

3. An o before Id changes to a or au; thus old=auld ; bold 
=bauld; cold=cauld; told=tauld ; etc. 

4. The o, oe, ow are changed to a, ae, ai ; thus off=aff; toe 
s^tae ; own=ai« ; cloth==claith ; raost=mais* ; song=sawg' ; etc. 

5. The o or w are frequently changed into i ; thus another 
^anitJie?' ; brother = brither ; foot = fit ; honey = Mnney ; nuts 
s=nits ; run=riw ; etc. 



ABEIGH, at shy distance. 
ABREAD, abroad, in sight. 

Abreed, in breadth. 

Able, putrid water. 

Aff loop, offhand. 

Agley, off the straight. 

AIBLINS, perhaps. 

AiK, oak. 

AiRL-PENNY,AlRLES,earnest- 
money. 

AIRN, iron. 

AIRT, V. direct ; n, direction. 

AiTH, oath. . 

AlTS, oats. 

AlVER, old horse. 

AIZLE, hot cinder. 

Alake, alas ! 

AN*, and, if. 

ASE, ashes. 

ASKLENT, aslant. 

AUGHT, possession. 

AULDFARRANT, sagacious, 
prudent. 

AULD LANG SYNE, days of old. 

AULD SHOON, old shoes ; dis- 
carded lover. 



AUMOUS, alms. 
AUMOUS-DISH, church collec- 
tion plate for poor , 
AUMRY, close cupboard. 
AVA, at all. 

AWN, beard of barley, etc. 
AWNIE, bearded. 

BACKET, BAIKEY, wooden 

coal scuttle. 
BACKETS, ash boards. 
BacklinS, backwards. 
Baide, endured, did stay. 
Baggie, belly. 

BAINIE, with large bones. 
BairnTIME, family, brood. 
Bang, v. beat, excel ; n. blow,. 

great number. 
Bannocks, bread (round and 

thicker than cake). 
Barley - bree, malt -liquor, 

ale or beer. 
Batts, botts, coUc (disease of 

horses). 
Bauchie-bird, bat. 
baudrons, cat. 



201 



GLOSSARY, 



203 



Cairo, tinker. 
Cantrip, charm, spell. 
Careering, moving cheer- 
fully. 
Carl, old man. 
Carl-hemp, male stalk of 

hemp. 
Carlin, stout old woman. 
Cauk and Keel, chalk and 

red clay. 
CaVIE, hen-coop. 
Cesses, taxes. 
Chanter, part of bagpipe. 
CHIMLA lug, fireside. 
CHOW, chew; CHEEK FOR 

CHOW, side by side. 
CHUCKIE, brood hen. 
CHUFFIE, fat faced. 
Clarty, dirty. 
CLARKIT, wrote. 
ClaugHT, snatched at. 
Claut, clean, scrape. 
ClaVERS, idle stories. 
CleCKIN, chicken brood. 
Cleed, v. clothe. 
Cleeds, n. clothes. 
Cleekit, having caught. 
Cleg, gad-fly. 
Clinkumbell, church-bell 

ringer. 
Clock, v. hatch ; n. beetle. 
CLOOT, hoof of cow or sheep. 
Clunk, sound of liquor in 

emptying bottle or cask. 
Cockernonny, lock of hair 

tied on girl's head ; cap. 
COFT, bought. 
COILA, Kyle (from ♦• auld King 

Coil "). 
COLLIESHANGIE, quarrel. 
COOKIT, appeared and dis- 
• appeared by fits. 
COUTHIE, kind, loving. 
COWE, V, terrify, lop ; w. fright ; 

bunch of furze. 
COWP, V. barter ; tumble over ; 

n. gang. 

COWTE, colt. 

Craig, neck. 

CrambO-CLINK, rhymes, dog- 
gerel. 
CranreuCH, hoar frost. 
Crood, Croud, coo as a dove. 
CrOUCHIE, crook-backed. 
CROULIN, crawling. 
CroUSE, cheerful, courageous. 



Crowdie, oatmeal and boiled 
water, sometimes from broth 
of beef. 

CRUMMOCK,cowwith crooked 
horns. 

CUMMOCK, short staff with 
crooked head. 

CURMURRIN', murmuring. 

CURPIN, crupper. 

CUTTY-STOOL, stool of repent- 
ance in church. 

Daimen, rare, now and then. 
Daimen-icker, an ear of corn 

now and then. 
Daud, v. thrash, abuse; n. 

large piece ; knock. 
DAURG, day's labour. 
Dawtit, fondled, caressed. 
DiGHT, wipe, clean corn from 

chaff. 
Doited, silly from age. 
DONZIE, unlucky. 
DOOL, sorrow ; SiNG DOOL, 

mourn. 
DORTY, saucy, nice. 
DOUCE, DOUSE, sober, pru- 
dent. 
DOUGHT, was able. 
DOUR AND DIN, sullen, sallow. 
Dow, am or are able. 
DOWFF, pithless. 
DowiE, weary, half-asleep. 
DOYLT, stupid. 
Droddum, breech. 
Drone, part of bagpipe. 
Droop, rumprt,hanging down. 
DROUKIT, wet. 
DROUNTIN', drawling. 
Drummock, meal and water 

mixed. 
DWAM, qualm, swoon. 
DYVOUR, bankrupt; ill-dressed 

idle fellow. 

Eerie, frightsome, fearing 

spirits. 
EILD, old age. 
ElbUCK, elbow. 
ELDRITCH, ghastly. 
ETTLE, try, intend. 
Eydent, diligent 

Fa'ARD, favoured. 
Faiket, unknown, unem- 
ployed, abated. 



204 



GLOSSARY. 



FAWSONT, decent, seemly. 
Feal, n. field ; a. smooth. 
Feat, neat, spruce. 
Feck, many, plenty. 
FeckeT, waistcoat, under- 
flannel. 
FeCKFU', large, brawny. 

Feckless, puny, weak. 
Feide, feud, enmity. 
Fell, a. keen, biting ; n. flesh 
next skin ; fairly level field ; 

hill side or top. 
FEND, live comfortably. 
FerlIE, Ferley, v.n.wonder 

(term of contempt). 
FiEL, soft, smooth. 
FIENT (fiend) A HAET, not a bit. 
FlER, a. sound, healthy; n. 

brother, friend. 
FITTIE-LAN, nearer horse of 

hindmost pair in plough. 
Flainen. flannel. 
FLAUGHTEkING, light shining 

fitfully. 
FLEECH, supplicate coaxingly. 
Fleg, kick, random blow. 
Flether, decoy by fair words. 
FLEY, scare, frighten. 
Flinders, shreds, broken 

pieces. 
Flingin-TREE, partition tim- 
ber between horses in stable. 
Flisk, fret at the yoke. 
FORBEARS, forefathers. 
FORFAIRN, FORFOUGHTEN, 

worn out, distressed. 
FORJESKETjaded with fatigue 
FOUTH, enough, plenty. 
Fow, bushel ; pitchfork. 
Freath, froth. 
FUD, tail of hare or rabbit. 
FUR-AHIN, hindmost horse on 

right hand when ploughing. 
Fyke, n. trifling cares ; v. fuss 

about trifles. 
Fyle, soil, dirty. 

Gaberlunzie, beggar-man. 
Gadsman, boy that rides 

horses in plough. 
Gangrel, vagrant. 
Gar, force to. 
Gash, a. wise, talkative; v. 

converse. 
Geck, toss the head in scorn. 
Ged, pike. 



Get, child, young one. 

Giglets, playful girls. 

GiLPEY, romp, hoyden. 

GiMMER, ewe from one to two- 
years old. 

Gin, if, against. 

GiZZ, periwig. 

Glaive, sword. 

Glaum'D, aimed, snatched. 

Gleck, Gleg, sharp, ready. 

Gley, squint; AGLEY, off the 
straight. 

Glib-Gabbet, that speaks 
readily. 

Grain'd and grunted, 

groaned and grunted. 
Graith, accoutrements, gear. 
Gree, agree ; Bear the 

GREE, be victorious. 
Groat. "Get the whistle o' 

ones groat," play a losing 

game. 
GrOUSOME, loathsomely grim. 
Grunzie, mouth. 
GRUSHIE, thick, of thriving 

growth. 
GULLY, large folding knife. 
GUMILIE, muddy. 

Gusty, tasteful. 
Gyre-carline, hag. 

HAET, thing (seefient a haet). 
Haffet, temple, side of head. 
Hafflins, nearly half, partly. 
Hag, scar ; gulf in mosses. 
Hain, spare, save. 
Hairst, harvest. 
HAITH, a petty oath. 
HALLAN,coitage partition wall; 

turf seat outside. 
HALLAN-SHAKER, sturdy 

beggar. 
Hallions, rogues. 
Hallowmas, 31st October. 
Hantle, a good deal. 
HARKIT, hearkened. 
HARN, very coarse linen. 
Hash, one that cannot dress or 

act properly. 
Haugh, low lying rich land. 
Haver-meal, oat-meal. 
HavINS, good manners, good 

sense. 
Hawkie, cow (with white face). 
Healsome, wholesome^ 

healthful. 









- 




GLOSSARY. 205 






Hearse, hoarse. 


Ket, a. matted, hairy; n. fleece 






HECHT, foretold, offered. 


of wool. 






HECKLE, board for dressing 


KIAUGH, carking anxiety. 






hemp, flax, etc. 


KING'S-HOOD, part of cow's 






HEEZE, elevate, raise. 


entrails. 






HeugH, crag, ravine, coal- 


KINTRA COOSER, country 






pit. 


stallion. 






HiLCH, hobble, halt. 


KlUTTLE, cuddle. 






HiRSEL, herd of cattle(as many 


KnaggIE, like Tcnags, or points 






as one person can tend). 


of rocks. 






HISTIE, dry, chapt, barren. 


KNURL, dwarf. 






HICHT, loop, knot. 


KYTE, belly. 






HODDIN, humble; HODDIN- 


Kythe, show one's self. 






GREY, coarse woollen cloth. 








HOG-SCORE, curling term. 


LAGGAN, angle between side 






HOG-SHOUTHER, kind of 


and bottom of wooden dish. 






horse play ; justle. 


LAIR, learning. 






HOOL, outer skin, nut-shell. 


Lairing, wading and sinking 






HOOLIE, slowly, leisurely. 


in snow, mud, etc. 






HOST, HOAST, cough. 


LAITHFU', bashful, sheepish. 






HOULET, owl. 


LALLANS, Lowlands. 






HOWDIE, midwife. 


LAN'- AFORE, LAN'-AHIN, 






HOWEBACKIT, sunk in the 


foremost or hindmost horse 


1 




back (of horses). 


in plough. 


' 




HOY, urge. 


Lave, rest, remainder. 


* 




HOYSE, pull upwards. 


Lawin, shot ; reckoning. 






HOYTE. amble crazily. 


Lea-rig, grassy ridge. 


1 




HURCHEON, hedgehog. 


LEE-LANG, livelong. 






HUSHION, cushion. 


LeeSOME, pleasant; T.FA- 
SOME LANE, dear self alone. 






ICKER, ear of corn. 


Leeze-me, congratulatory 






lEROE, great-grandchild. 


phrase, happy in, proud of. 






Ilka, every. 


Leisier, three-pronged fish- 


' 




INGINE, genius, ingenuity. 


ing dart. 






Ingle, fire-place. 


LiBBET, gelded. 






ISE, I shall or will. 


Lift, sky. 
LiMMER, mistress. 


. 




JAUK, dally, trifle. 


Link, trip along. 






Jimp, v. jump ; a. slender 


Lint r the bell, flax in 






handsome. 


flower. 


; 




JiMPLY, barely, scarcely. 


LINTWHITE, linnet ; a. flaxen- 






JOCTELEG, large knife (for 


coloured. 






Jacqvss de Liege). 


LOAN, LOANIN, milking place. 






JOUGS, the pillory. 


LOOPY, crafty. 






JOW, verb implying swinging 


LUGGIE, small wooden dish 


; 




motion and pealing sound of 


with handle. 






large bell. 


LUNT, V. smoke ; n. column of 






JUNDIE, justle. 


smoke. 
Lyart, of mixed colour, grey. 






Kae, daw. 








Kain, fowls, etc.; part of farm 


MAHOUN, Satan. 






rent. 


Mailen, farm. 






KEBARS, rafters. 


Malison, curse. 






XEBBUCK, cheese. 


Mar's Year, 1715. 






Kelpie, mischievous spirits at 


Marrow, mate, one of a 






fords on stormy nights. 


pair. 













206 



GLOSSARY. 



MASHLUM, MESLIN, mixed 
corn. 

Maskin-PAT, tea-pot. 

MaUKIN, hare. 

Melder, corn, etc., sent to 
mill to be ground. 

Mell, be intimate, meddle ; 
w. mallet. 

Melvie, soil with meal. 

Mense, good manners, de- 
corum. 

Menseless, ill-bred. 

Merle, blackbird. 

Messin, dog of low breed. 

MiM, prim, affectedly meek. 

MINNIE, mother, dam. 

MlRK,MlRKEST,dark,darkest 

MiSLEARD, mischievous, un- 
mannerly. 

MISLIPPEN, neglect. 

MOOP, nibble as a sheep. 

MOSS-HAGS, pits and sloughs 
in a bog. 

MOUDIWORT, mole. 

MUSLIN-KAIL, broth of water, 
shelled barley, and greens. 

NaiG, nag, horse. 
Nappy, n. ale ; v. tipsy. 
NiEST, next. 
NiEVE, fist. 

NIFFER, n. V. exchange. 
NOWTE, black cattle. 

OE, Oye, grandchild. 

Or, for ere, before. 

Orra, odd, not matched, what 

may be spared. 
OURIE, shivering, drooping. 
OUTLERS, cattle not housed. 
OWRE-HIP, way of using 

hammer. 
OVVSHN, oxen. 

Pack, intimate ; n. 12 stones 
of wool. 

Paiks, blows. 

Pairtrick, partridge. 

Pattle, Pettle, plough- 
staff. 

PauGHTY, proud, haughty. 

PECHAN, crop, stomach. 

Pettle, cherish (see Pattle). 

Philabeg, Highland kilt. 

PICKLE, small quantity. 

PINE, pain ; uneasiness. 



PLACK, old Scotch coin=two 
bodies = third of English 
penny. 

PLISKIE, trick. 

Poind, seize goods for rent. 

POORTITH, poverty. 

POUT, poult, chick. 

Preen, pin. 

Prent, printing. 

Prie, taste. 

PRIEF, proof. 

Prig, cheapen. 

Primsie, demure, precise. 

ProPine, present, gift. 

Pyle, Pyle C caff, singlfr 
grain of chaff. 

QUAICH, small cup. 
QUAT, quit. 

Quean, young woman, wench. 
QUEY, cow from one to two 
years old. 

Raible, rattle nonsense. 

Rair, roar. 

Raize, madden, inflame. 

Ram-feezl'D, fatigued ; over- 
spread. 

Raploch, coarse cloth; a. 
coarse. 

Raucle, rash, stout. 

R AUGHT, reached. 

Rave, tore. 

Raw, row. 

Rax, stretch. 

Ream, n. v. cream. 

Reamin', brimful, frothing. 

Reave, rove. 

REAVIN', open, violent thiev- 
ing. 

Rede, v.n. counsel, separate, 
put to rights. 

RED-WAT-SHOD, walking in 
blood over shoe tops- 

RED-WUD, stark mad. 

REE, half-drunk. 

Reisted, stopped, stuck ^t ;. 
smoke-dried. 

REST, stand restive. 

RiCKLES, shooks of com, 
stooks. 

RiEF, REEF, plenty. 

RiEF RANDIES, Sturdy beg- 
gars. 

Rip, handful of unthreshed 
corn. 









1 
\ 




GLOSSARY, 207 






RIPLING-KAME, instrument 


SKYTE. glide rapidly off; n. 






for dressing flax. 


worthless fellow. 






RISKIT, made noise like tear- 


Slap, gate, breach in fence. 






ing of roots. 


Slee, Sleekit, sly. 






ROCKIN', spinning on rock or 


SlOKEN, quench, slake. 






distaff. 


Slype, fall over (as wet furrow 






ROON, shred. 


from plough). 






ROOSE, praise. 


SMEDDUM, dust; mettle; sense. 


' 




ROUPET, hoarse. 


SMOOR, smother. 






ROUTHIE, plentiful. 


SMOUTIE, smutty, ugly. 


. 




ROWTH, ROUTH, plenty. 


Smytrie, large number. 






ROZET, rosin. 


Snapper, stumble. 






RUG, V. pull; n. dog-cheap 


Snaw-broo, melted snow. 






bargain. 


Sned, lop, cut off. 






RUNG, cudgel. 


Snick, Sneck, door latch. 






Ruth, woman's name ; sorrow. 


Snick-drawing, trick con- 






RYKE, reach. 


triving. 
Snood, fillet for tying maiden's 






Sackless, innocent. 


hair. 






Sain, bless against evil in- 


Snool, one whose spirit is 






fluence. 


broken by oppression; v. 






SCAITH, n. V. harm. 


sneak, submit tamely. 






SCAITHLESS, unharmed. 


SNOOVE, sneak. 






SCAUR, a. apt to be scared ; 


Snowk, scent or snufF (like 






n. steep earth bank over- 


dog). 






hanging river. 


SONSIE.pleasant looking, jolly» 






SCRIEVE, glide swiftly. 


fat. 






SCROGGIE, covered with un- 


Sorners, hardy beggars. 






derwood. 


SOUTER, shoemaker. 






SHANGAN, stick cleft at one 


Sowens, seeds of oatmeal 






end. 


soured and boiled. 


■ 




Shanglin', shambling. 


SOWTH, try over a tune with 






SHAVIE, do an ill turn. 


low whistle. 






Shaw, small wood in hollow 


SPAUL, limb. 


■ 




place. 


SPAIRGE, dash ; soil (as with 


- 




SHEEN, bright, shining. 


mire). 






Sheep-shank, thinic one's self 


SpenCE, country parlour. 






nae sheepshank, be conceited. 


SPLEUCHAN, tobacco pouch. 






Shiel, shed. 


SPORRAN, purse. 


" 




Shill, shrill. 


SPRlT,tough plant (like rushes) 






SHILPIT, weak, insipid. 


SPUNKIE, mettlesome ; n. will 






ShOG, shock, push off at one 


o' wisp. 






side. 


STAIG, unbroken young horse. 






SHORE, offer, threaten. 


STANG, pole, tree branch. 






SiBB, related by blood. 


SrARK, stout. 






Sicker, sure, severe. 


STAUMREL, blockhead. 






SILKEN-SNOOD, fillet of silk 


ST AW, stole, surfeit. 






(worn by virgins). 


STECH, cram the belly. 






SkellUM, worthless fellow. 


STEEK, v. shut ; n. stitch. 


■ 




Skelpy-LIMMER, term used 


STEEVE, firm, compact. 






by scolding woman. 


Sten, rear (as a horse). 






SKEPS, bee-hives. 


Stents, tribute, dues. 






SKEIGH, proud, nice, high- 


Sterns, stars. 






mettled. 


STEY, steep. 






SKINKLIN', small portion. 


Stibbling, leading reaper in 






SKOUTH, scope, free action. 


harvest. 























208 GLOSSARY. 






Stick an' Stow, totally, alto- 


Ten-hours'-bite, slight feed 


' 




gether. 


to horses in forenoon. 






StiCKED, stuck ; murdered. 


Tent, field pulpit; heed; v. 






Stilt, n. crutch; V. limp. 


take heed. 






Stimpart, eighth of Win- 


Thairms, small guts, fiddle 






chester bushel. 


strings. 






STIRK, year - old cow or 


THEEKIT, thatched. 






bullock. 


Th I EYELESS, cold, dry (of 






STOITIN', staggering. 


one's demeanour). 






STOOR, sounding hoUow.strong 


THOWLESS, with no force 






and hoarse. 


(thew). 






STOUR, stern, gruff. 


Threap, assert positively. 






Stoure, dust (in motion). 


THROUTHER, pell-mell, con- 






STOWLINS, by stealth. 


fusedly. 






Stow, cut off, lop. 


Tine, lose; Tint, lost; Tint 






STOWN, stolen. 


THE gate, lost the way. 






STRAE, straw; DIE A FAIR 


Tip, Toop, ram. 






STRAE death, die in one's 


Tirl, slight noise ; uncover. 






bed. 


Tocher, marriage portion. 


i 




Studdie, anvil. 


Tod, fox. 






StruNT, spirituous liquor : v. 


Tout, n. blast of horn; v. blow 






walk sturdily ; TAK' THE 


horn. 






STRUNTS, take the pet. 


TOWMOND, twelvemonth. 






Stuff, com or pulse. 


TOY, very old fashion of female 






STURT, trouble; STURTIN, 


head-dress. 






frighted. 


TranSMUGRIFY'D, changed, 






SUNKETS, provisions, delica- 


metamorphosed. 






cies. 


TROW, believe. 






SUNKIE, low stool. 


TUG, raw hide (for making 






Swarf, swoon. 


plough traces). 






SWEER, lazy, averse ; DEAD- 


TULZIE, V. n. quarrel. 






SWEER, extremely averse. 


TWAL-PENNIE-WORTH, small 






SWIRLIE, knaggy, knotty. 


quantity; an English penny's 






SWITH, get away, quickly. 


worth. 






SYND, rinse ; SYNDINGS, rin- 


TWIN, part. 






sings. 


TYKE, large coarse dog. 






SYNE, since, in that case. 








S\'VER, gutter. 


UGSOME, disgusting. 

Unco, strange ; uncouth; very. 


i 




TairGE, target. 


Uncos, news. 


< 




Tait, small quantity. 


UnsiCKER, unsure, unsteady. 






Tapetless, heedless. 


UNWEETING, unknowingly. 






Tappit-HEN, drinking vessel 


UPHAUDEN, supported. 






with knob at top (holds a 








quart). 


Wabster, weaver. 






Tarrow, murmur at one's 


WAD, would; n. v. bet. 






allowance. 


WaesuCKS 1 alas I 






Tarry-breeks, sailor. 


Waff, shabby. 


' 




Tasse, Tassie, cup. 


Waft, woof. 






Tauted, Tautie, matted (of 


Wair, expend. 






hair or wool). 


Wale, choice, choose. 


\ 




Tawie, that lets itself be 


WaliE, large; jolly; cry of 


' 




peaceably handled {of horse, 


distress. 






cow, etc.). 


WaNCHANSIE, unlucky. 






Tedding, spreading after 


WanrESTFU', restless. 






mower. 


Wark-LUME, work tool. 













GLOSSARY, 



209 



Warsl'D, wrestled. 

WAT, wet; I WAT (wot), 

know. 
WAUBLE, swing, reel. 
WAUKIT, thickened (as fullers 

do cloth). 
WAUKRIFE, sleepless. 
WEARIE, weary; MONY A 

WEARIE BODY, many a 

different person. 
WeaSON, wind- pipe. 
WEIRD, fate. 
We'SE, we shall. 
Whatreck, nevertheless. 
WHEEP, fly nimbly ; jerk ; 

PENNY WHEEP, small beer. 
Whid, hare's motion ; lie. 
WHIDDEN, running- like hare 

or rabbit. 
WHIGMELEERIES, whims, 

crotchets. 
WHIRLIGIGUMS, useless orna- 
ments. 
WHITTER, hearty drink of 

liquor. 
WICK, curling term. 
Wicker, small willow. 
Wiel, small whirlpool. 



WILLYARD, wild ; Strange ; 
shy. 

"WINNOCK, window. 

WINTLE, stagger. 

WINZE, an oath. 

WONS, dwells. 

WOODIE, rope (of withs); gal- 
lows. 

WoOER-BAB, garter with two 
loops below knee. 

Wrack, teeze, vex. 

WrEETH, drifted snow. 

WUD, mad, distracted. 

WUZZENT, withered, dried. 

WYLIECOAT, flannel vest. 

WvTE, n. V. blame. 

Yald, supple, active. 

Yell, barren ; that gives no 
milk. 

Zellow - YELDRING, yellow- 
hammer. 

Yerk, lash, jerk. 

YiLL, ale. 

YiRD, earth. 

YOKIN, yoking; about. 

YOWE, ewe. 

YULE, Christmas. 



POEMS. 



THE TWA DOGS. 



'TwAS in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
Upon a bonnie day in June, 
When wearing thro' the afternoon, 
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgather'd ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Ceesar, 
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure : 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Whare sailors gang to fish for Cod. 

His locked, letter' d, braw brass collar, 
Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar : 
But tho' he was o' high degree. 
The fient a pride — nae pride had he ; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin', 
E'en wi' a tinkler-gipsey's messan. 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him. 
An' stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, roving billie, 
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him. 
After some dog in Highland sang. 
Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang. 

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, 
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his touzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl. 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; 
Wi' social nose whyles snuff' t and snowkit, 
Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit ; 



THE TWA DOGS, 



Whyles scour' d awa in lang excursion, 
An' worried ither in diversion ; 
Until wi' daffin weary grown, 
Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
An' there began a lang digression 
About the lords o' the creation. 

CESAR. 

I've aften wonder' d, honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ; 
An' when the gentry's life I saw, 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 

Our Laird gets in his racked rents, 
His coals, his kain, an' a' his stents ; 
He rises when he likes himsel ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell ; 
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse; 
He draws a bonnie, silken purse 
As lang's my tail, whare thro' the steeks. 
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en, it's nought but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
An' tho' the gentry first are stechin. 
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan, 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, an' such like trashtrie. 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, 
Better than ony tenant man 
His Honour has in a' the Ian' : 
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
I own it's past my comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't enough: 
A cotter howkin' in a sheugh, 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke, 
Barring a quarry, and siclike, 
Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains, 
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans. 
An' nought but his han' darg, to keep 
Them right an' tight in thack an' rape. 

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters. 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, 
An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger, 
But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 



THE TWA DOGS, 



3 



CJ^SAR. 

But then to see how ye' re negleckit, 
How huff' d, an' cuff'd, an' disrespeckit ! 
Lord, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle, 
They gang as saucy by poor folk, 
As I wad by a stinkin' brock. 

I've notic'd on our Laird's court-day, 
An' mony a time my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
How thae man thole a factor's snash : 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble. 
An' hear it a', and fear an' tremble ! 

I see how folk live that hae riches : 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches. 



LUATH. 

They're no sae wretched' s ane wad think, 
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink: 
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight. 
The view o't gi'es them little fright. 

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided. 
They're aye in less or mair provided ; 
An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives : 
The prattling things are just their pride. 
That sweetens a' their fire-side. 

An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco happy ; 
They lay aside their private cares. 
To mind the Kirk and State affairs ; 
They'll talk o' patronage an' priests, 
Wi' kindling fury i' their breasts, 
Or tell what new taxation's comin, 
An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns, 
They get the jovial, ranting kirns. 
When rural life o' ev'ry station. 
Unite in common recreation : 
Love blinks. Wit slaps, an' social Mirth 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins. 
They bar the door on frosty win's ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream. 
An' sheds a heart- inspiring steam ; 



THE TWA DOGS, 



The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill, 
Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, 
The young anes rantin' thro' the house. — 
My heart has been sae fain tae see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's mony a creditable stock 
0' decent, honest, fawsont folk, 
Are riven out baith root an' branch. 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel' the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle Master, 
Wha, ablins, thrang a parliamentin', 
For Britain's guid his saul indentin' — 

CtESAR. 

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it : 
For Britain's guid ! guid faith ! I doubt it. 
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, 
An' saying aye or no's they bid him : 
At operas an' plays parading, 
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading : 
Or maybe, in a frolic daft. 
To Hague or Calais taks a waft, 
To make a tour, an' tak a whirl, 
To learn hon ton an' see the worP. 

There, at Vienna or Versailles, 
He rives his father's auld entails ; 
Or by Madrid he taks the route. 
To thrum guitars, an' fecht wi' nowte ; 
Or down Italian vista startles. 
Whore-hunting amang groves o' myrtles: 
Then bouses drumly German water. 
To mak himsel' look fair and fatter, 
An' clear the consequential sorrows. 
Love -gifts of Carnival Signoras. 
For Britain's guid ! — for her destruction! 
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction ! 

LUATH. 

Hech man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ? 
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at last ? 

would they stay aback frae courts. 
An' please themsels wi' country sports, 
It wad for ev'ry ane be better. 
The Laird, the Tenant an' the Cotter ! 



THE TWA DOGS, 



For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, 
Pient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows: 
Except for breaking o' their timmer, 
Or speaking lightly o' their limmer, 
Or shootin o' a hare or moor-cock, 
The ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me, Master Caesar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ? 
Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them, 
The very thought o't need na fear them. 

cj:sar. 

Lord, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true, they needna starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges and schools. 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They mak enow themsels to vex them, 
An' aye the less they hae to sturt them, 
In like proportion less will hurt them. 

A country fellow at the pleugh, 
His acre's till'd, he's right eneugh ; 
A country girl at her wheel, 
Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel: 
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank an' lazy ; 
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang an' restless ; 

An' ev'n their sports, their balls an' races, 
Their galloping thro' public places, 
There's sic parade, sic pomp an' art, 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 

The men cast out in party-matches, 
Then sowther a' in deep debauches, 
Ae nicht they're mad wi' drink an' whoring, 
Niest day their life is past enduring. 
The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
As great an' gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, 
They're a' run deils an jads thegither. 
\Vhyles, owre the wee bit cup an' platie. 
They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks. 
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 



THE TWA DOGS. 



Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. 

There's some exceptions, man an' woman 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this, the sun was out o' sight. 
An' darker gloamin brought the night : 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone, 
The kye stood rowtin i' the loan ; 
When up they gat, an' shook their lugs, 
Eejoic'd they were na men but dogs ; 
An' each took aff his several way, 
Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 

" Git him strong drink, until he loink, 

That's sinking in despair ; 
An' Liquor guid to fire his bluid, 

That's prest wi' grief an' care ; 
There let him bouse, an' deep carouse, 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts. 

An' minds his gHefs no more." 

Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi., 6, 7. 



Let other Poets raise a fracas 

'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drucken Bacchus^ 

An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us. 

An' grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scotch beer can mak us, 

In glass or jug. 

thou, my Muse I guid auld Scotch Drink,. 
Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink. 
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink. 

In glorious faem, 
Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink, 

To sing thy name ! 

Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn. 
An' Aits set up their awnie horn. 
An' Pease an' Beans at e'en or morn, 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou King o' grain ! 

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood. 
In souple scones, the wale o' food ! 



SCOTCH DRINK. 



Or tumblin in the boiling flood 

Wi' kail an' beef ; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, 

There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin' ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin', 
When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin', 

But oil'd by thee, 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin', 

Wi' rattlin glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear : 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care ; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, 

At's weary toil ; 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy, siller weed, 
Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head ; 
Yet humbly kind, in time o' need. 

The poor man's wine. 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread. 

Thou kitchens fine. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 

But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? 

Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts. 

By thee inspir'd, 
When gaping they besiege the tents, 

Are doubly fir'd. 

That merry night we get the corn in ! 
sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in I 
Or reekin on a New-Year mornin' 

In cog or bicker. 
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, 

An' gusty sucker ! 

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, 
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith^ 
rare ! to see thee fizz an' freath 

I' th' lugget caup ! 
Then Burnewin comes on like Death 

At ev'ry chaup. 

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ; 
The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel> 

The strong forehammer, 
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 



When skirlin' weanies see the light, 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, ^ 
How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight, 

Wae worth the name ! 
Nae Howdie gets a social night, . 

Or plack frae them. 

When neebors anger at a plea, 
An' just as wud as wud can be, 
How easy can the barley-bree 

Cement the quarrel I 
It's aye the cheapest Lawyer's fee, 

To taste the barrel. 

Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason 1 
But mony daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice, 
An' hardly, in a winter's season 

E'er spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash ! 
Fell source o' mony a pain an' brash ! 
Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash, 

0' half his days ; 
An' sends, besides, auld Scotland's cash 

To her warst faes. 

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well, 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, 
Poor plackless devils like mysel'. 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, 

Or foreign gill. 

May gravels round his blather wrench. 
An' gouts torment him, inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 

0' sour disdain, 
Out owre a glass o' Whisky punch 

Wi' honest men ! 

O Whisky ! soul o' plays an' pranks ! 
Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks ! 
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 

Are my poor verses ! 
Thou comes they rattle i' their ranks 

At ither's a s ! 

Thee, Ferintosh ! sadly lost ! 
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast ! 
Now colic-grips, an' barkin hoast. 

May kill ns a' ; 
For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast 

Is ta'en awa ! 



SCOTCH DRINK, 



9 1 



Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, 
Wha mak the Whisky Stells their prize ! 
Haud up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice ! 

There, seize the blinkers ! 
An' bake them up in brunstane pies 

For poor damn'd drinkers. 

Fortune I if thou'll but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, an' Whisky gill, 
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, 

Tak a' the rest, 
An' deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 



THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY 
AND PRAYER. 

TO THE SCOTCH KEPRESENTATIVES IN THE HOUSE 
OF COMMONS. 

" Dearest of Distillation / last and best — 
How art thou lost / " 

Parody on Milton. 



Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires, 
Wha represent our burghs an' shires, 
An' doucely manage our affairs 

In Parliament, 
To you a simple Bardie's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 

Alas ! my roopit muse is hearse ; 

Your Honours' heart wi' grief 'twad pierce, 

To see her sitten on her a — 

Low i' the dust, 
An' screechin out prosaic verse, 

An' like to burst ! 

Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotland an' me's in great affliction, 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction 

On Aquavitas ; 
An' rouse them up to strong conviction, 

An' move their pity. 

Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth 

The honest, open, naked truth : 

Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth. 

His servants humble ; 
The muckle devil blaw you south, 

If ye dissemble I 



10 



THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST 



Does ony great man glunch an' gloom, 
Speak out, an' never fash your thumb I 
Let posts an' pensions sink or soora 

Wi' them wha grant 'em ; 
If honestly they canna come, 

Far better want 'em. 

In gath'rin votes you were na slack ; 
Now stand as tightly by your tack ; 
Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back, 

An' hum an' haw ; 
But raise your arm, an' tell your crack 

Before them a'. 

Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle ; 
Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle ; 
An' damn'd Excisemen in a bussle, 

Seizin a Stell, 
Triumphant crushin't like a mussel 

Or lampit shell. 
Then on the tither hand present her, 
A blackguard Smuggler, right behint her, 
An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie Vintner, 

Colleaguing join. 
Picking her pouch as bare as Winter 

Of a' kind coin. 
Is there that bears the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart's bluid rising hot. 
To see his poor auld Mither's pot 

Thus dung in staves, 
An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves ? 

Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, 
Trode i' the mire out o' sight ! 
But could I like Montgomeries fight 

Or gab like Boswell, 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight. 

An' tie some hose well. 
God bless your Honours, can ye see't. 
The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet. 
An' no get warmly to your feet. 

An' gar them hear it ? 
An' tell them wi' a patriot-heat, 

Ye winna bear it ! 

Some o' you nicely ken the laws. 
To round the period an' pause, 
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak harangues ; 
Then echo thro' St. Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wran^s. 



CI^V AND PR A YER. 



11 



Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran ; 
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran ; 
An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron, 

The Laird o' Graham ; 
An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran, 

Dundas his name. 

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie ; 
True Campbells, Frederick an' Hay ; 
An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie : 

An' mony ithers, 
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully 

Might own for brithers. 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle. 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
Or faith ! I'll wad ma new plough-pettle, 

Ye'll see't or lang, 
She'll teach you wi' a reekin' whittle 

Anither sang. 

This while she's been in crankous mood, 
Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid ; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid, . 

Play'd her that pliskie !) 
An' now she's like to run red-wud 

About her Whisky. 

An' Lord, if ance they pit her till't, 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt. 
An' dirk an' pistol at her belt. 

She'll tak the streets, 
An' rin her whittle to the hilt, 

I' th' first she meets ! 
For God sake. Sirs ! then speak her fair, 
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair. 
An' to the muckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed. 
An' strive wi' a' your wit an' lear. 

To get remead. 
Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ; 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the caJie I 
An' send him to his dicing box 

An' sportin' lady. 

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's 
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bannocks, 
An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's 

Nine times a-week, 
If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks, 

Wad kindly seek. 



12 



THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST 



Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 
He need na fear their foul reproach 

Nor erudition, 
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, 

The Coalition. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; 
She's just a devil wi' a rung ; 
An' if she promise, auld or young. 

To tak their part, 
Tho' by the neck she should be strung, 

She'll no desert. 

An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, 
May still your Mither's heart support ye ; 
Then, though a Minister grow dorty. 

An' kick your place, 
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, 

Before his face. 

God bless your Honours a' your days, 
Wi' sowps o' kail an' brats o' claise. 
In spite o'^a' the thievish kaes 

That haunt St. Jamie's 1 
Your humble Bardie sings an' prays 

While Rab his name is. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Let half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies, 
See future wines, rich-clust'ring, rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies. 
But blythe an' frisky. 
She eyes her free-born, martial boys, 
Tak aff their Whisky. 

What tho' there Phoebus kinder warms. 
While fragrance blooms an' beauty charms ! 
When wretches range in famish'd swarms, 

The scented groves. 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burden on their shouther ; 
They downa bide the stink o' powther ; 
Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither 

To stan' or rin, 
Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throwther. 

To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotchman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill. 



CRY AND PRAYER. 



13 



Say, such is royal George's will, 

An' there's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him 
Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him ; 

An' when he fa's, 
His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him 

In faint huzzas. 

Sages their solemn een may steek, 
An' raise a philosophic reek, 
An' physically causes seek, 

In clime an' season ; 
But tell me Whisky's name in Greek, 

I'll tell the reason. 

Scotland, my auld, respected Mither ! 
Tho' whyles ye moistify your leather, 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather. 

Ye tine your dam ; 
Freedom and Whisky gang thegither ! 

Tak aff your dram I 



THE HOLY FAIR. 

A robe, of seeming truth and trust 

Hid crafty Observation ; 
And secret hung, with poisoned crusty 

The dirk o' Defamation ; 
A mask that like the gorget show'd, 

Dye-varying on the pigeon : 
And for a mantle large and broad, 

He wrapt him in Religion. 

Hypoorisy-a-la -mode. 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn. 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn, 

An' snuff the caller air. 
The risin' sun, owre Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin' ; 
The hares were hirplin down the furrs, 

The lav'rocks they were chantin 

Fu' sweet that day. 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad. 

To see a scene sae gay. 
Three hizzies, early at the road, 

Cam skelpin' up the way. 



14 



THE HOL V FAIR. 



black, 



Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' 

But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
The third, that gaed a wee a-back, 

Was in the fashion shining 

Fu' gay that day. 

The twa appear'd like sisters twin, 

In feature, form, an' claes ; 
Their visage wither'd, lang an' thin, 

An' sour as ony slaes : 
The third cam up, hap-stap-an'-lowp, 

As light as ony lambie. 
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, 

As soon as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day. 

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, ' Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, 

But yet I canna name ye.' 
Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak. 

An' tak's me by the ban's, 

* Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck 

Of a' the ten comman's 

A screed some day. 

* My name is Fun — your cronie dear, 

The nearest friend ye hae ; 
An' this is Superstition here. 

An' that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in daffin' : 
Gin ye'U go there, yon runkl'd pair, 

We will get famous laughin' 

At them this day.* 

Quoth I, * With a' my heart I'll do't ; 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on. 
An' meet ye on the holy spot ; 

Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin' ! ' 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time. 

An' soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, frae side to side, 

Wi' mony a wearie bodie, 

In droves that day. 

Here, farmers gash, in ridin graith, 

Gaed hoddin by their cotters ; 
There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith, 

Are springin owre the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, 

In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 



THE HOLY FAIR. 



15 



Wi' sweet-milk cheese in mony a whang, 
An' farls, bak'd wi' butter, 

Fu' crump that day. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, 

An' we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show, 

On ev'ry side they're gath'rin, 
Some carryin' dails, some chairs, an' stools. 

An' some are busy bleth'rin 

Eight loud that day. 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 

An' screen our countra gentry ; 
There, racer Jess, an' twa-three whores. 

Are blinkin at the entry. 
Here sits a raw o' tittlin jades, 

Wi' heavin breast and bare neck, 
An' there, a batch o' wabster lads. 

Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock 

For fun this day. 

Here, some are thinkin o' their sins, 

An' some upo' their claes ; 
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, 

Anither sighs an' prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd up, grace-proud faces ; 
On that, a set o' chaps, at watch, 

Thrang winkin on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 

happy is that man an' blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best 

Comes clinkin down beside him ! 
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair-back. 

He sweetly does compose him ; 
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 

An's loof upon her bosom 

Unkend that day. 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation ; 
For Moodre speels the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' damnation. 
Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' God present him, 
The vera sight o' Moodie's face 

To's ain het hame had sent him 

Wi' fright that day. 



16 



THE HOLY FAIR, 



Hear how he clears the points o' faith 

Wi* rattlin an' wi' thumpin ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, 

He's stampin an' he's jumpin ! 
His lengthen'd chin, his turned-up snout, 

His eldritch squeel an' gestures, 
how they fire the heart devout. 

Like cantharidian plasters. 

On sic a day I 

But, hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice ; 

There's peace an' rest nae langer : 
For a' the real judges rise, 

They canna sit for anger. 
Smith opens out his cauld harangues. 

On practice and on morals ; 
An' afi the godly pour in thrangs. 

To gie the jars an' barrels 

A lift that day. 

What signifies his barren shine 

Of moral pow'rs an' reason ? 
His English style an' gesture fine 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan Heathen, 
The moral man he does define, 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day. 

In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poison'd nostrum ; 
For Peebles frae the water-fit 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word o' God, 

An' meek an' mim has view'd it. 
While Common Sense has ta'en the road, 

An' aff, an' up the Cowgate 

Fast, fast, that day. 

Wee Miller, niest, the Guard relieves. 

An' Orthodoxy raibles, 
Tho' in his heart he weel believes. 

An' thinks it auld wives' fables : 
But, faith ! the birkie wants a manse. 

So, cannily he hums them ; 
Altho' his carnal wit an' sense 

Like hafflins-wise o'ercomes him 

At times that day. 

Now, butt an' ben, the Change-house fills, 
Wi' yill-caup Commentators; 



THE HOL Y FAIR, 



17 



Here's crying out for bakes an' gills, 
An' there the pint-stowp clatters ; 

While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, 
Wi' logic, an' wi' Scripture, 

They raise a din, that in the end 
Is like to breed a rupture 

0' wrath that day. 

Leeze me on Drink ! it gi'es us mair 

Than either School or College : 
It kindles Wit, it waukens Lair, 

It pangs us fou o' Knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, 

Or ony stronger potion, 
It never fails, on drinkin deep, 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day. 

The lads an' lasses blythely bent 

To mind baith saul an' body, 
Sit round the table, weel content, 

An' steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, 

They're makin observations ; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk, 

An' formin assignations 

To meet some day. 

But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts, 

Till a' the hills are rairin, 
An' echoes back return the shouts ; 

Black Kussel is na sparin : 
His piercing words, like Highlan' swords. 

Divide the joints an' marrow ; 
His talk o' Hell, whare devils dwell. 

Our vera * sauls does harrow ' 

Wi' fright that day ! 

A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, 

Fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane, 
Wha's ragin flame, an' scorchin heat, 

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane ! 
The half asleep start up wi' fear, 

An' think they hear it roarin, 
When presently it does appear 

*Twas but some neebor snorin 

Asleep that day. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How mony stories past, 
An' how they crowded to the yill, 

When they were a' dismist : 



18 



THE HOLY FAIR, 



How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, 
Amang the forms and benches ; 

An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, 
Was dealt about in lunches. 

An' dauds that day. 

In comes a gaucie, gash Guidwife, 

An' sits down by the fire. 
Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife ; 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld Guidmen, about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother. 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays. 

An' gi'es them't like a tether, 

Fu' lang that day, 

Waesucks ! for him that gets nae lass, 

Or lasses that hae naething ! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace. 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
Wives, be mindfu', ance yoursel 

How bonnie lads ye wanted. 
An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, 

Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day ! 

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattling tow, 

Begins to jow an' croon ; 
Some swagger hame, the best they dew, 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink. 

Till lasses strip their shoon : 
Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink. 

They're a' in famous tune 

For crack that day. 

How mony hearts this day converts 

0' sinners and o' lasses ! 
Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane 

As saft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine. 

There's some are fou o' brandy ; 
An' mony jobs that day begin. 

May end in Houghmagandie 

Some ither day. 



DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 19 



DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK 



A TRUE STORY. 

Some books are lies frae end to end, 
And some great lies were never penn'd : 
Ev'n Ministers, they hae been kenn'd, 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid, at times, to vend, 

And nail't wi' Scripture. 

But this that I am gaun to tell, 
Which lately on a night befell, 
Is just as true's the Deil's in hell 

Or Dublin city : 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel 

's a muckle pity. 

The Clachan yill had made me canty, 

I wasna fou, but just had plenty ; 

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay 

To free the ditches ; 
An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd ay 

Frae ghaists an' witches. 

The rising moon began to glow'r 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre : 
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, 

I set mysel ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

I cou'd na tell. 

I was come round about the hill, 
And todlin down on Willie's mill, 
Setting my staff, wi' a' my skill, 

To keep me sicker ; 
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, 

I took a bicker. 

I there wi' Something did forgather, 

That pat me in an eerie swither ; 

An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, 

Clear-dangling, hang : 
A three -taed leister on the ither 

Lay, large an' lang. 

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa. 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw. 
For fient a wame it had ava. 

And then its shanks, 
They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' 

As cheeks o' branks. 



20 DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK, 



*Guid-e'en,'quo' I; 'Friend! hae ye been ma win, 
When ither folk are busy sawin ? ' 
It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan', 

But naething spak ; 
At length, says I, * Friend, whare ye gaun. 

Will ye go back ? ' 
It spak right howe — * My name is Death, 
But be na fley'd.'— Quoth I, ' Guid faith, 
Ye' re maybe come to stap my breath ; 

But tent me, billie : 
I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith, 

See, there's a gully ! ' 

* Gudeman,' quo' he, ' put up your whittle, 
I'm no design'd to try its mettle ; 

But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd, 

I wad na mind it, no that spittle 

Out-owre my beard.' 

* Weel, weel ! ' says I, * a bargain be't ; 
Come, gi'es your hand, an' sae we're gree't ; 
We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, 

Come gie's your news ; 
This while ye hae been mony a gate, 
At mony a house.' 

* Ay, ay ! ' quo' he, an' shook his head, 
' It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread, 

An' choke the breath : 
Folk maun do something for their bread, 
An' sae maun Death. 

* Sax thousand years are near-hand fled, 
Sin' I was to the hutching bred, 

An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid, 
To stap or scaur me ; 

Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade, 

An' faith, he'll waur me. 

* Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, 
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan ! 
He's grown sae well acquant wi' Buchan 

An' ither chaps, 
The weans haud out their fingers laughin 
And pouk my hips. 

* See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart. 
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart ; 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art 

And cursed skill, 
Has made them baith no worth a f — t, 

Damn'd haet they'll kill. 



DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 21 



* 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, 
I threw a noble throw at ane ; 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain : 
But deil-ma-care, 

It just play'd dirl on the bane. 

But did nae mair. 

* Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, 
And had sae fortified the part, 
That when I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt, 
Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart 
0' a kail runt. 

' I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
I near-hand cowpit wi' my hurry, 
But yet the bauld Apothecary 

Withstood the shock ; 
I might as weel hae tried a quarry 

0' hard whin rock. 

* E'en them he canna get attended, 
Altho' their face he ne'er had kend it. 
Just sh — in a kail-blade, and send it, 

As soon's he smells't, 
Baith their disease, and what will mend it. 
At once he tells't. 

* And then, a' doctor's saws and whittles, 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, 

He's sure to hae ; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 
As A B C. 

* Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees ; 
True Sal-marinum o' the seas ; 
The Farina of beans and pease, 

He has't in plenty ; 
Aqua-fontis, what you please. 

He can content ye. 

* Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 
Urinus Spiritus of capons ; 

Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings. 
Distill' d 2?er se ; 

Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail clippings. 

And mony mae.' 

* Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole now,* 
<3uoth I, ' if that thae news be true ! 
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, 

Sae white and bonnie, 
l^ae doubt they'll rive it wi' the pleugh ; 

They'll ruin Johnny ! ' 



22 DEA TH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 



The creature grain' d an eldritch laugh, 
And says, * Ye needna yoke the pleugh, 
Kirk-yards will soon be till'd enough, 

Tak ye nae fear : 
They'll a' be trench' d wi' mony a sheugh, 

In twa-three year. 

* Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae-death, 
By loss o' blood or want of breath, 
This night I'm free to tak my aith, 

That Hornbook's skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith, 
By drap and pill. 

' An honest Wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce well-bredr 

Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, 

When it was sair ; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed, 

But ne'er spak mair. 

* A countra Laird had ta'en the batts, 
Or some curmurring in his guts, 
His only son for Hornbook sets. 

An' pays him well. 
The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets. 

Was Laird himsel. 
' A bonnie lass, ye kend her name. 
Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame : 
She trusts hersel, to hide the shame. 

In Hornbook's care ; 
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame. 

To hide it there. 

* That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way ; 
Thus goes he on from day to day. 

Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, 

An's weel pay'd for't ; 

Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, 

Wi' his damn'd dirt. 

' But, hark ! I'll tell you of a plot, 
Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't ; 
I'll nail the self-conceited Sot 

As dead's a herrin : 
Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat. 

He gets his fairin 1 ' 
But just as he began to tell. 
The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell 
Some wee, short hour ayont the twal, 

Which rais'd us baith* 
I took the way that pleas'd mysel, 

An' sae did Death. 



THE BRIGS OF A YR. 



23 



THE BRIGS OF AYR. 



A POEM. 

INSCRIBED TO JOHN BALLANTINE, ESQ., AYR. 

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, 

Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough ; 

The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush ; [bush ; 

Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn 

The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill. 

Or deep- ton 'd plovers, grey, wild- whistling o*er the 

Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed, [hill — 

To hardy independence bravely bred. 

By early poverty to hardship steel'd. 

And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field ; 

Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes. 

The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? 

Or labour hard the panegyric close. 

With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose ? 

No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings. 

And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings. 

He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 

Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. 

Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace, 

Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace ; 

When Ballantyne befriends his humble name 

And hands the rustic Stranger up to fame. 

With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells. 

The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 



'Twas when the stacks got on their winter-hap, 
And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap ; 
Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith 
0' coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 
Unnumber'd buds and flow'rs, delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, 
Are doomed by Man, that tyrant o'er the weak, 
The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek : 
The thund'ring guns are heard on ev'ry side. 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie. 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
(What warm, poetic heart but inly bleeds. 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds 1) 
Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs ; 
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings. 
Except perhaps the Eobin's whistling glee. 
Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree : 



24 



THE BRIGS OF A YR, 



The hoary morns precede the sunny days, 

Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze, 

While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays. 

'Twas in that season ; when a simple Bard, 

Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, 

Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, 

By whim inspir'd, or haply prest wi' care, 

He left his bed and took his wayward route. 

And down by Simpson's wheel'd the left about: 

(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate, 

To witness what I after shall narrate ; 

Or whether, rapt in meditation high. 

He wander 'd out he knew not where nor why :) 

The drowsy Dungeon clock had number'd two. 

And Wallace Tow'r had sworn the fact was true : 

The tide-swoln Firth, wi' sullen-sounding roar. 

Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore : 

All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e ; 

The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree : 

The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 

Crept, gently- crusting, owre the glittering stream.— 

When, lo I on either hand the list'ning Bard, 
The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard ; 
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air. 
Swift as the Gos drives on the wheeling hare ; 
Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, 
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers ; 
Our warlock Bhymer instantly descry'd 
The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. 
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 
And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ; 
Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain them. 
And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them.) 
Auld Brig ajjpear'd o' ancient Pictish race, 
The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face : 
He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang, 
Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 
New brig was buskit in a braw new coat. 
That he, at Lon'on, frae ane Adams got ; 
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 
Wi' virls an' whirlygigums at the head. 
The Goth was stalking round with anxious search, 
Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch ; 
It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, 
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he ! 
Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, 
He, down the water, gies him this guid-een : — 
AULD BRIG. 

I doubt na, Frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep-shank, 
Ance ye were streekit owre frae bank to bank ! 



THE BRIGS OF A YR. 



25 



But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho', faith ! that date, I doubt, ye'll never see; 
There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddle, 
Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle. 

NEW BRIG. 
Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street, 
Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet, 
Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane and lime. 
Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? 
There's men of taste wou'd tak the Ducat-stream, 
Tho' they should cast the vera sark an' swim, 
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view 
0' sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk ! puff 'd up wi' windy pride ! 
This mony a year I've stood the flood an' tide ; 
And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Brig, when ye're a shapeless cairn ! 
As yet ye little ken about the matter. 
But twa-three winters will inform ye better. 
When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; 
When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, 
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, 
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course 
Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source, 
Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowes ; 
In mony a torrent down his snaw-broo rowes ; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring spate, 
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate ; 
And from Glenbuck, down to the Eatton-key, 
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen' d, tumbling sea ; 
Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies. 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost. 
That Architecture's noble art is lost I 
NEW BRIG. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't ; 
The Lord be thankit that we've tint the gate o't ! 
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, 
Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices : 
O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves. 
Supporting roofs, fantastic, stony groves : 
Windows and doors in nameless sculptures drest, 
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; 
Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream, 
The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; 



26 



THE BRIGS OF A YR. 



Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee, 
And still the second dread command be free, 
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea. 
Mansions that would disgrace the building taste 
Of any mason reptile, bird, or beast ; 
Fit only for a doited monkish race, 
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace. 
Or cuifs of later times, wha held the notion. 
That sullen gloom was sterling, true devotion ; 
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection. 
And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection ! 
AULD BRIG. 
ye, my dear-remember' d, ancient yealins. 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings ! 
Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, 
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil aye ; 
Ye dainty Deacons, an' ye douce Conveeners, 
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners ! 
Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; 
Ye godly Brethren o' the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly gie your hurdles to the smiters ; 
And (what would now be strange) ye godly Writers : 
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, 
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do I 
How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, 
To see each melancholy alteration ; 
And agonizing, curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base, degen'rate race ! 
Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's glory, 
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story ; 
Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce. 
Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house ; 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, 
The herryment and ruin of the country ; 
Men, three-parts made by Tailors and by Barbers, 
Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on damn'd new 
Brigs and Harbours ! 

NEW BRIG. 

Now hand you there ! for faith you've said enough. 
And muckle mair than ye can mak to through ; 
As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, 
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 
But, under favour o' your langer beard. 
Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd : 
To liken them to your auld-warld squad, 
I must needs say, comparisons are odd. 
In Ayr, Wag- wits nae mair can hae a handle 
To mouth ' a Citizen,' a term o' scandal : 
Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, 
In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 



THE BRIGS OF AYR. 



27 



Men wha grew wise priggin owre hops an' raisins, 
Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins. 
If haply knowledge, on a random tramp, 
Had shor'd them wi' a glimmer of his lamp, 
And would to Common-Sense for once betray'd them, 
Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. 

What farther clishmaclaver might been said. 
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight 
A fairy train appear' d in order bright : 
Adown the glittering stream they featly danc'd ; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd : 
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat. 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : 
While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung. 
And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung. 
had M'Lachlan, thairm-inspiring sage. 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, 
When thro' his dear strathspeys they bore with 

Highland rage, 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, 
The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been nobler fir'd. 
And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'd ! 
No guess could tell what instrument appear' d, 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard ; 
Harmonious concert rung in every part, 
While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart. 

The Genius of the Stream in front appears, 
A venerable Chief, advanc'd in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd. 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring ; 
Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Eural Joy, 
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : 
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 
Led yellow Autumn wreath' d with nodding corn ; 
Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary show, 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow ; 
Next follow' d Courage with his martial stride, 
From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide ; 
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair : 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode 
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode : 
Last, white-rob' d Peace, crown'd with a hazel wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken, iron instruments of death : [wrath. 

At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling 



28 



THE ORDINATIOr^. 



THE ORDINATION. 



" For sense they little owe to frugal Heav'n-^ 
To please the mob they hide the little (jiv'n." 

Kilmarnock Wabsters, fidge and claw, 

An' pour your creeshie nations ; 
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, 

Of a' denominations ; 
Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a'^ 

An' there tak up your stations. 
Then aff to Begbie's in a raw. 

An' poor divine libations 

For joy this day. 

Curst Common-sense, that imp o' hell, 

Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ; 
But Oliphant aft made her yell 

An' Eussel sair misca'd her ; 
This day M'Kinlay takes the flail, 

An' he's the boy will blaud her ! 
He'll clap a shangan on her tail, 

An' set the bairns to daud her 

Wi' dirt this day. 

Mak haste an' turn King David owre, 

An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; 
0' double verse come gie us four. 

An' skirl up the Bangor : 
This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, 
For Heresy is in her pow'r, 

An' gloriously she'll whang her 

Wi' pith this day. 

Come, let a proper text be read. 

An' touch it off wi' vigour, 
How graceless Ham leugh at his Dad, 

Which made Canaan a nigger : 
Or Phineas drove the murdering blade, 

Wi' whore-abhoring rigour ; 
Or Zipporah, the scauldin' jad, 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

I' th' Inn that day. 

There, try his mettle on the creed. 
And bind him down wi' caution. 

That Stipend is a carnal weed 
He taks but for the fashion ; 

An' gie him o'er the flock, to feed. 
And punish each transgression ; 



THE ORDINATION. 



29 



Especial, rams that cross the breed, 
Gie them sufficient threshin', 

Spare them nae day. 

Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail. 

An' toss thy horns fu' canty ; 
Nae mair thow'lt rowte out-owre the dale, 

Because thy pasture's scanty ; 
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 
An' runts o' grace the pick an' wale, 

No gi'en by way o' dainty. 

But ilka day. 

Nae mair by Babel streams we'll weep, 

To think upon our Zion ; 
And hing our fiddles up to sleep. 

Like baby-clouts a-dryin' : 
Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep, 

And o'er the thairms be tryin' ; 
Oh rare ! to see our elbucks wheep. 

An' a' like lamb -tails flyin' 

Fu' fast this day ! 

Lang, Patronage, wi' rod o' airn. 

Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin*, 
As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, 

Has proven to his ruin : 
Our Patron, honest man ! Glencairn, 

He saw mischief was brewin' ; 
And like a godly, elect bairn. 

He's wal'd us out a true ane. 

And sound this day. 

Now, Bobertson, harangue nae mair. 

But steek your gab for ever : 
Or try the wicked town o' Ayr, 

For there they'll think you clever ; 
Or, nae reflection on your lear, 

Ye may commence a Shaver ; 
Or to the Netherton repair. 

And turn a Carpet-weaver 

Aff-hand this day. 

Mutrie and you were just a match. 

We never had sic twa drones : 
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, 

Just like a winkin baudrons : 
And ay he catch'd the tither wretch, 

To fry them in his caudrons ; 
But now his Honour maun detach, 

Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons, 

Fast, fast this day. 



30 



THE ORDINATION. 



See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes 

She's swingein thro' the city; 
Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! 

I vow it's unco pretty ! 
There, Learning, with his Greekish face, 

Grunts out some Latin ditty ; 
And Common-sense is gaun, she says, 

To mak to Jamie Beattie 

Her plaint this day. 

But there's Morality himsel, 

Embracing all opinions ; 
Hear, how he gie's the tither yell, 

Between his twa companions ; 
See, how she peels the skin an' fell, 

As ane were peelin onions 1 
Now there, they're packed aff to hell, 

And banish'd our dominions. 

Henceforth this day. 

O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter I 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter : 
M'Kinlay, Kussel are the boys 

That heresy can torture ; 
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse. 

And cowe her measure shorter 

By th' head some day. 

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, 

An' here's for a conclusion. 
To every New Light mother's son. 

From this time forth, Confusion : 
If mair they deave us wi' their din. 

Or Patronage intrusion, 
We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin. 

We'll rin them aff in fusion 

Like oil, some day. 



THE CALF. 



TO THE BEV. MR. JAMES STEVEN, ON HIS TEXT, 
MALACHI, CH. IV. VER. 2. 

** And ye shall go forth and nrow up as calves of the stall,** 

Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true, 

Tho' Heretics may laugh ; 
For instance, there's yoursel just now, 

God knows, an unco Calf ! 



THE CALF. 



31 



And should some Patron be so kind 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find 

Ye're still as great a Stirk. 

But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot. 
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power, 

You e'er should be a Stot I 

Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear, 

Your but-and-ben adorns. 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 

And, in your lug, most reverend James, 

To hear you roar and rowte. 
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank among the Nowte. 

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head — 

* Here lies a famous Bullock ! ^ 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 

" Prince/ Chief of many throned Pow'rs, 
That led th' embattCed Seraphim to war." 

— Milton. 

THOU ! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, 

Clos'd under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie. 

To scaud poor wretches ! 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 
An' let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 

Ev'n to a deil, 
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, 

An' hear us squeel 1 

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame; 
Far kend an' noted is thy name ; 
An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame, 

Thou travels far ; 
An' faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 

Nor blate nor scaur. 



32 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 



Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion 
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin' ; 
Whyles on the strong- winged Tempest flyin', 

Tirlin the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', 

Unseen thou lurks. 

I've heard my reverend Graunie say, 
In lanely glens ye like to stray ; 
Or where auld, ruin'd castles, gray, 

Nod to the moon, 
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, 

Wi' eldritch croon. 

When twilight did my Graunie summon, 
To say her pray'rs, douce, honest woman ! 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin', 

Wi' eerie drone ; 
Or, rustlin', thro' the boortrees comin', 

Wi' heavy groan. 
Ae dreary, windy, winter night. 
The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, 
Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright, 

Ayont the lough ; 
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sough. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake. 
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake. 
When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick, quaick, 

Amang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter'd like a drake. 

On whistling wings. 

Let warlocks grim, an' wither' d hags 
Tell who wi' you on ragweed nags, 
They skim the muirs, an' dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed ; 
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, 

Owre howkit dead. 

Thence, countra wives, wi' toil an' pain. 
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain ; 
For, oh! the yellow treasure's taen 

By witching skill; 
An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen 

As yell's the Bill. 

Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse, 
On young Guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse ; 
When the best wark-lume i' the house, 

By cantrip wit, 
Is instant made no worth a louse, 

Just at the bit. 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 



3a 



When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 
An* float the jinglin' icy-boord, 
Then, Water-kelpies haunt the foord, 

By your direction, 
An' nighted Travelers are allur'd 

To their destruction. 

An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies 
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is : 
The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys 

Delude his eyes, 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is 

Ne'er mair to rise. 
When Masons' mystic word an' grip 
In storms an' tempests raise you up, 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 

Or, strange to tell ! 
The youngest Brother ye wad whip 

Aff straught to hell. 
Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard. 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, 
An' all the soul of love they shar'd. 

The raptur'd hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird. 

In shady bow'r : 
Then you, ye auld, sneck-drawing dog I 
Ye came to Paradise incog., 
An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be your fa' I) 
An' gied the infant warld a shog, 

'Maist ruin'd a'. 
D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz. 
Ye did present your smootie phiz 

'Mang better folk, 
An' sklented on the man of Uzz, 

Your spitefu' joke? 
An' how ye gat him i' your thrall. 
An' brak him out o' house an' hall, 
While scabs an' blotches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw. 
An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked Scawl, 

Was warst ava ? 
But a' your doings to rehearse, 
Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce, 
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, 

Down to this time, 
Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

c 



34 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 



An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin*, 
A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin', 
Some luckless hour will send him linkin', 

To your black pit ; 
But, faith I he'll turn a corner jinkin'. 

An' cheat you yet. 

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben I 
wad ye tak a thought an' men' I 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 

Still hae a stake — 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 

Ev'n for your sake I 



THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF 

POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S 

ONLY PET EWE. 

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE, 

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, 
Was ae day nibbling on the tether, 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch ; 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
When Hughoc he cam doytin' by. 

Wi' glowrin' een, an' lifted ban's, 
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's ; 
He saw her days were near-hand ended. 
But, waes my heart 1 he could na mend it 1 
He gaped wide, but naething spak. 
At length poor Mailie silence brak. 

* thou, whose lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my woefu' case 1 
My dying words attentive hear. 
An' bear them to my Master dear. 

' Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
O, bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair I 
But ca' them out to park or hill. 
An' let them wander at their will ; 
So may his flock increase, an' grow 
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo' I 

* Tell him, he was a Master kin', 
An' aye was guid to me an' mine ; 
An' now my dying charge I gie him. 

My helpless lambs, I trust them wi' him. 



THE DEATH OF POOR MAILIE. 35 



» O, bid him save their harmless lives, 
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives I 
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themsel : 
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, 
Wi' teats o' hay an' ripps o' corn. 

* An' may they never learn the gaets 
Of ither vile wanrestfu' pets ! 

To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal, 

At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 

So may they, like their great Forbears, 

For mony a year come thro' the sheers ; 

So wives will gie them bits o' bread. 

An' bairns greet for them when they're dead. 

* My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, 
0, bid him breed him up wi' care ! 
An', if he live to be a beast, 

To pit some havins in his breast ! 
An' warn him, what I winna name. 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame ; 
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots. 
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. 

' An' niest my yowie, silly thing, 
Gude keep thee frae a tether string 1 
O, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop ; 
But ay keep mind to moop an' mell 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel ! 

* And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath 
I lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith : 

An' when you think upo' your Mither, 
Mind to be kind to ane anither. 

' Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail, 
To tell my Master a' my tale ; 
An' bid him burn this cursed tether. 
An' for thy pains thou'se get my blether. 

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, 
An' closed her een amang the dead ! 



POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 
Our Bardie's fate is at a close. 

Past a' remead ; 
The last, sad cape-stane of his woes ; 

Poor Mailie's dead J 



36 POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY, 

It's no the loss o' warl's gear, 
That could sae bitter draw the tear, 
Or mak our Bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed . 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear 

In Mailie dead. 

Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, 

She ran wi' speed : 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him 

Than Mailie dead. 

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, 
An' could behave hersel wi' mense ; 
I'll say't, she never brak a fence, 

Thro' thievish greed. 
Our Bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 

Sin' Mailie's dead. 

Or, if he wanders up the howe, 

Her living image in her yowe 

Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe. 

For bits o' bread ; 
An' down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 

Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips ; 

For her forbears were brought in ships 

Frae yont the Tweed : 
A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 

Than Mailie's dead. 

Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape ! 
It maks guid fellows girn an' gape, 

Wi' chokin' dread ; 
An' Eobin's bonnet wave wi crape 

For MaiHe dead. 

O, a' ye Bards on bonnie Doon ! 
An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune ! 
Come, join the melancholious croon 

0' Eobin's reed; 
His heart will never get aboon ! 

His Mailie's dead I 



TO JAMES SMITH. 



37 



TO JAMES SMITH, 

** Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul I 
Sweetener of Life, and solder of Society ! 

I owe thee much " 

—Blair. 

Dear Smith, the slee'est, paukie thief, 
That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts ; 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 

For me, I swear by sun an' moon, 
And ev'ry star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon 

Just gaun to see you ; 
And ev'ry ither pair that's done, 

Mair taen I'm wi' you. 
That auld, capricious carlin. Nature, 
To mak amends for scrimpit stature, 
She's turned you aff, a human creature 

On her first plan, 
And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature. 

She's wrote, * The Man.* 

Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme, 
My barmie noddle's working prime, 
My fancie yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon ; 
Hae ye a leisure-moment's time 

To hear what's comin ? 

Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash; 

Some rhyme (vain thought I) for needfu' cash; 

Some rhyme to court the countra clash, 

An' raise a din ; 
For me, an aim I never fash ; 

I rhyme for fun. 

The star that rules my luckless lot, 

Has fated me the russet coat. 

An' damn'd my fortune to the groat; 

But, in requit, 
Has blest me with a random shot 

O' countra wit. 

This while my notion's taen a sklent. 
To try my fate in guid, black prent. 
But still the mair I'm that way bent, 

Something cries, * Hoolie 1 
I red you, honest man, tak tent ! 

Ye'll shaw your folly. 



38 



TO JAMES SMITH. 



* There's ither poets, much your betters, 
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought thae had ensured their debtors, 

A' future ages ; 
Now moths deform in shapeless tatters 

Their unknown pages.' 

Then farewell hopes o' laurel-boughs, 
To garland my poetic brows 1 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Are whistlin' thrang. 
An' teach the lanely heights an' howes 

My rustic sang. 
I'll wander on wi' tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed, 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread ; 

Then, all unknown, 
ril lay me with th' inglorious dead, 

Forgot and gone I 
But why o' Death begin a tale I 
Just now we're living sound and hale ; 
Then top and maintop crowd the sail 

Heave Care o'er side 1 
And large, before Enjoyment's gale. 

Let's tak the tide. 

This life, sae far's I understand, 
Is a' enchanted fairy -land, 
Where pleasure is the magic wand, 

That, wielded right, 
Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, 

Dance by fu' light. 

The magic wand then let us wield : 
For ance that five-an' -forty's speel'd. 
See, crazy, weary, joyless Eild, 

Wi' wrinkl'd face. 
Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field, 

Wi' creepin pace I 

When ance life's day draws near the gloamin*, 
Then fareweel vacant careless roamin' ; 
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin', 

An' social noise ; 
An' fareweel dear deluding woman. 

The joy o' joys I 

life ! how pleasant in thy morning. 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 

We frisk away, 
Like schoolboys, at th' expected warning. 

To joy and play. 



TO JAMES SMITH, 



39 



We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier, 
Unmindful that the thorn is near, 

Among the leaves : 
And the' the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot 
For which they never toil'd nor swat ; 
They drink the sweet and eat the fat, 

But care or pain ; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

With high disdain. 

With steady aim, some Fortune chase ; 
Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace ; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, 

And seize the prey ; 
Then cannie, in some cozie place, 

They close the day. 

And others, like your humble servan*, 
Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observing 
To right or left, eternal swervin', 

They zig-zag on ; 
Till curst with age obscure an' starvin'. 

They aften groan. 
Alas ! what bitter toil an' straining — 
But truce wi' peevish poor complaining I 
Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning? 

E'en let her gang I 
Beneath what light she has remaining. 

Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door. 

And kneel, *Ye pow'rs !' and warm implore, 

* Tho' I should wander Terra o'er, 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more. 
Aye rowth o' rhymes. 

* Gie dreeping roasts to countra Lairds, 
Till icicles hing f rae their beards ; 

Gie fine braw claes to fine Life-guards, 
And Maids of Honour ; 

And yill an' whisky gie to Cairds, 
Until they sconner. 

* A Title, Dempster merits it ; 
A Garter gie to Willie Pitt ; 

Gie Wealth to some be-ledger'd Cit, 

In cent per cent ; 
But gie me real, sterling Wit, 

And I'm content. 



40 TO JAMES SMITH, 



* While ye are pleased to keep me hale, 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerfu' face, 
As land's the muses dinna fail 

To say the grace.* 
An anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath Misfortune's blows 

As weel's I may ; 
Sworn foe to Sorrow, Care, and Prose, 

I rhyme away. 

ye douce folk, that live by rule. 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm, and cool, 
Compar'd wi' you — fool 1 fool I fool I 

How much unlike I 
Your hearts are just a standing pool, 
Your lives, a dyke I 

Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces, 
In your unletter'd, nameless faces 1 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray. 
But gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise ; 
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys. 
The rattlin squad : 

1 see you upward caet your eyes — 

Ye ken the road. — 

Whilst I — but I shall hand me there — 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair. 

But quat my sang. 
Content with You to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



A DREAM. 

" l^houghts, words, and deeds^ the Statute blames with reason f j 

But surely Dreams were ne'er indicted Treason." 

[On reading, in the public papers, the Laureate's Ode, 
with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was 
no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself trans- 
ported to the Birth-day Levee ; and in his dreaming fancy, 
made the following Address.] 



GuiD-MORNiN to your Majesty I 
May heaven augment your blisses, 



A DREAM. 



41 



On ev'ry new birth-day ye see 

A humble Bardie wishes I 
My Bardship here, at your Levee, 

On sic a day as this is 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 

Amang the Birth-day dresses 
Sae fine this day. 

I see ye' re complimented thrang, 

By mony a lord an' lady ; 
* God save the King ! ' 's a cuckoo sang 

That's unco easy said aye ; 
The Poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, 

But aye unerring steady, 
On sic a day. 

For me I before a Monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter ; 
For neither pension, post, nor place, 

Am I your humble debtor ; 
So, nae reflection on Your Grace, 

Your Kingship to bespatter ; 
There's mony waur been o' the Eace, 

An ablins ane been better 

Than you this day. 

*Tis verra true, my sovereign King, 

My skill may weel be doubted ; 
But Facts are chiels that winna ding, 

An' downa be disputed : 
Your Boyal nest, beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right reft an' clouted, 
And now the third part of the string, 

An' less, will gang about it 
Than did ae day. 

Far be't frae me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation. 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, 

To rule this mighty nation ; 
But, faith ! I muckle doubt, my Sire, 

Ye've trusted Ministration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre. 

Wad better fiU'd their station 

Than courts yon day. 

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, 
Her broken shins to plaister ; 

Your sair taxation does her fleece 
Till she has scarce a tester ; 



42 A DREAM. 



For me, thank God, my life's a lease 

Nae bargain wearing faster ; 
Or, faith ! I fear that with the geese> 

I shortly boost to pasture 

I' the craft some day. 

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges,) 
That he intends to pay your debt. 

An' lessen a' your charges ; 
But, God's sake I let nae saving-fit 

Abridge your bonnie barges 

An' boats this day. 

Adieu, my Liege ! may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection ; 
An' may ye rax Corruption's neck, 

And gie her for dissection 1 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, true affection. 
To pay your Queen, with due respect, 

My fealty an' subjection 

This great Birth-day. 

Hail, Majesty most Excellent 1 

While nobles strive to please ye, 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple Poet gies ye ? 
Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, 

Still higher may they heeze ye 
In bliss, till Fate some day is sent. 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 

For you, young Potentate o' Wales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails, 

An' curse your folly sairly. 
That ere ye brak Diana's pales. 

Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie, 
By night or day. 

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known 

To mak a noble aiver ; 
Sae, ye may doucely fill a Throne, 

For a' their clish-ma-claver : 
There, him at Agincourt wha shone. 

Few better were or braver ; 



A DREAM. 43 



And yet, wi funny, queer Sir John, 
He was an unco shaver 

For mony a day. 

For you, right rev' rend Osnaburg, 

Nane sets the lawn- sleeve sweeter, 
Altho' a ribbon at your lug 

Wad been a dress completer : 
As ye disown yon paughty dog 

That bears the Keys of Peter, 
Then, swith I an' get a wife to hug. 

Or, trouth ! ye'll stain the Mitre 
Some luckless day. 

Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, 

Ye've lately come athwart her ; 
A glorious galley, stem and stern, 

Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter ; 
But first hang out, that she'll discern 

Your hymeneal charter. 
Then heave aboard your grapple airn, 

An', large upon her quarter, 

Come full that day. 

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', 

Ye royal Lasses dainty, 
Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw, 

An' gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer na British boys awa'. 

For Kings are unco scant aye ; 
An' German Gentles are but sma'. 

They're better just than want aye 
On ony day. 

God bless you a' ! consider now 

Ye're unco muckle dautet ; 
But, e'er the course o' life be through,' 

It may be bitter sautet : 
An' I hae seen their coggie fou. 

That yet hae tarrow't at it ; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that day. 



THE VISION. 

DUAN FIRST. 

The sun had clos'd the winter day. 
The Curlers quat their roarin play, 



44 



THE VISION. 



An' hunger' d Maukin taen her way 

To kail-yards green, 

While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she had been. 

The thresher's weary flingin'-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me ; 
And whan the day had clos'd his e'e. 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the Spence, right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, 
That fiU'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek, 

The auld, clay biggin ; 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin'. 

All in this mottie, misty clime, 
I backward mus'd on wasted time, 
How I had spent my youthfu' prime. 

An' done nae-thing, 
But stringin' blethers up in rhyme, 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I might, by this, hae led a market. 
Or strutted in a bank, and clarkit 

My cash-account : 
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, 

Is a' th' amount. 

I started, mutt' ring, blockhead ! coof I 
And heav'd on high my waukit loof, 
To swear by a' yon starry roof. 

Or some rash aith, 
That I, henceforth, would be rhyme -proof 

Till my last breath — 

When click ! the string the snick did draw ; 
And jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 
And by my ingle-lowe I saw. 

Now bleezin bright, 
A tight, outlandish Hizzie, braw, 

Come full in sight. 

Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht ; 
The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht; 
I glowr'd as eerie' s I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht. 

And stepped ben. 



THE VISION. 45 



Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 
Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows, 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token ; 
And come to stop these reckless vows. 

Would soon been broken. 

A * hair-brain' d, sentimental trace,* 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildly- witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her ; 
Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with Honour. 

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean 

Could only peer it ; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

Nane else cam near it. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue. 

My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 

Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw 

A lustre grand ; 
And seem'd, to my astonish' d view, 

A well-known Land. 

Here, rivers in the sea were lost ; 
There, mountains to the skies were tost : 
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast 

With surging foam ; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, 

The lordly dome. 
Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods ; 
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds, 
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, 

On to the shore ; 
And many a lesser torrent scuds, 

With seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread. 

An ancient Borough rear'd her head ; 

Still, as in Scottish story read, 

She boasts a Eace, 
To ev'ry nobler virtue bred. 

And polish'd grace. 
By stately tow'r or palace fair. 
Or ruins pendent in the air. 
Bold stems of Heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare. 

With feature stern. 



46 



THE VISION. 



My heart did glowing transport feel, 

To see a Eace heroic wheel, 

And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
While back-recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their Suthron foes. 

His Countby's Saviour, mark him well I 
Bold Richardton's heroic swell ; 
The Chief on Sark who glorious fell, 

In high command ; 
And He whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a sceptr'd Pictish shade 
Stalk' d round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial Eace, pourtray'd 

In colours strong ; 
Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd 

They strode along. 

Thro' many a wild, romantic grove, 
Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove, 
(Fit haunts for Friendship or for Love 

In musing mood,) 
An aged Judge, I saw him rove. 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck reverential awe 
The learned Sire and Son I saw, 
To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave their lore : 
This, all its source and end to draw ; 

That, to adore. 

Brydon's brave Ward I well could spy. 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye; 
Who call'd on Fame, low standing by. 

To hand him on, 
Where many a Patriot name on high 

And Hero shone. 



DUAN SECOND. 

With musing- deep, astonish'd stare, 
I view'd the heavenly-seeming Fair ; 
A whisp'ring throb did witness bear. 

Of kindred sweet, 
When with an elder Sister's air 

She did me greet. 

* All hail ! my own inspired Bard I 
In me thy native Muse regard ! 



THE VISION. 4n 



Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 

Thus poorly low ! 

I come to give thee such reward 
As we bestow. 

* Know, the great Genius of this land 
Has many a light, aerial band, 
Who, all beneath his high command, 

Harmoniously, 
As Arts or Arms they understand. 

Their labours ply. 

* They Scotia's Eace among them share ; 
Some fire the Soldier on to dare ; 
Some rouse the Patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart : 
Some teach the Bard, a darling care. 
The tuneful art. 

* 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour ; 
Or, 'mid the venal Senate's roar. 

They, sightless, stand, 
To mend the honest patriot lore. 

And grace the hand. 

* And when the Bard, or hoary Sage, 
Charm or instruct the future age. 
They bind the wild, Poetic rage 

In energy. 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 

* Hence, Fullarton, the brave and young ; 
Hence, Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue ; 
Hence, sweet harmonious Beattie sung 

His " Minstrel lays " ; 
Or tore, with noble ardour stung. 

The Sceptic's bays. 

* To lower orders are assign' d 

The humbler ranks of human -kind, 
The rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind, 

The Artizan ; 
All choose, as various they're inclin'd, 

The various man. 

* When yellow waves the heavy grain. 

The threat'ning storm some, strongly, rein; 
Some teach to meliorate the plain 

With tillage-skill ; 
And some instruct the Shepherd-train, 

Blythe o'er the hill. 



48 THE VISION. 



* Some hint the Lover's harmless wile; 
Some grace the Maiden^s artless smile ; 
Some soothe the Laborer's weary toil, 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage-scenes beguile 

His cares and pains 

* Some, bounded to a district-space, 
Explore at large Man's infant race, 
To mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic Bard ; 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 

A guide and guard. 

* Of these am I — Coila my name ; 
And this district as mine I claim, 
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, 

Held ruling pow'r : 
I mark'd thy embryo -tuneful flame. 
Thy natal hour. 

' With future hope, I oft would gaze, 

Fond, on thy little early ways, 

Thy rudely- caroll'd, chiming phrase. 

In uncouth rhymes, 
Fir'd at the simple, artless lays 

Of other times. 

* I saw thee seek the sounding shore. 
Delighted with the dashing roar ; 

Or when the North his fleecy store 

Drove thro' the sky, 

I saw grim Nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

* Or when the deep green-mantl'd Earth 
Warm-cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the gen'ral mirth 

With boundless love. 

* When ripen'd fields and azure skies, 
Call'd forth the Keaper's rustling noise, 
I saw thee leave their ev'ning joys, 

And lonely stalk, 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

* When youthful Love, warm-blushing, strong. 
Keen- shivering shot thy nerves along, 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 

Th' adored Name, 
I taught thee how to pour in song, 

To soothe thy flame. 



I 

i. 

THE VISION. 49 1 



* I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray, 

By Passion driven ; 
I But yet the light that led astray 

I Was light from Heaven. 

I * I taught thy manners painting strains, 

I The loves, the ways of simple swains. 

Till now o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends ; 
And some, the pride of Coila's plains, 

Become thy friends. 

* Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe, 

With Shenstone's art ; 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow. 

Warm on the heart. 

* Yet, all beneath th' unrivall'd rose, 
The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 
Tho' large the forest's monarch throws 

His army shade. 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 
Adown the glade. 

* Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 
And trust me, not Potosi's mine. 

Nor King's regard. 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 
A rustic Bard. 

* To give my counsels all in one. 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
Preserve the dignity of Man, 

With soul erect ; 
And trust the Universal Plan 

Will all protect. 

* And wear thou this ' — she solemn said. 
And bound the Holly round my head : 
The polish' d leaves, and berries red. 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 
In light away. 



50 ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID. 



ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR 

THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 

i 

" My son, these maxims make a rule, j 

And lump them aye thegither ; 

TAe Rigid Righteous w a /oo^, j 

The Rigid Wise anither : \ 

The cleanest corn that e'er was dight i 

May hae some piles o* caff in ; \ 

So ne*er a fellow-creature slight | 

For random Jits o' dajln." , 

Solomon.— EccLEs. vii. 16. 

O YE wha are sae guid yoursel, ; 

Sae pious and sae holy, i 

Ye've nought to do but mark and teli 

Your Neebour's fauts and folly ! , 

Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, I 

Supply'd wi' store o' water, j 

The heapet happer's ebbing still, j 

And still the clap plays clatter. | 

Hear me, ye venerable Core, 

As counsel for poor mortals. 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door, 

For glaikit Folly's portals ; 
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, [ 

Would here propone defences. j 

Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, 

Their failings and mischances. 

Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, ■ 

And shudder at the niffer, ■ 

But cast a moment's fair regard, i 

What maks the mighty differ ; i 

Discount what scant occasion gave j 

That purity ye pride in, i 

And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) ' 

Your better art o' hidin'. I 

Think, when your castigated pulse i 

Gi'es now and then a wallop, 
What raging must his veins convulse, I 

That still eternal gallop : ! 

Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 

Eight on ye scud your sea-way ; \ 

But in the teeth o' baith to sail, 

It maks an unco leeway. 

See Social Life and Glee sit down, j 

All joyous and unthinking, i 

Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown 
Debauchery and Drinking : 



„ — 1._ 



ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUJD. 61 



O would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state, 

Damnation of expenses I 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous Dames, 

Tied up in godly laces. 
Before ye gie poor Frailty names, 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination — 
But, let me whisper i' your lug, 

Ye' re ablins nae temptation. 

Then gently scan your brother Man, 

Still gentler sister Woman ; 
Tho' they may gang a kennin' wrang, 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark. 

The moving Why they do it ; 
And just as lamely can ye mark, 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows each chord, its various tone; 

Each spring, its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mute. 

We never can adjust it; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But know not what's resisted. 



TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY. 

I ** An honest man's the noblest work of God.'* 

j —Pope. 

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the Deil ? 
i Or great M'Kinlay thrawn his heel? 

Or Eobertson again grown weel, 
j To preach an' read ? 

* Na, waur than a' ! ' cries ilka chiel. 



! 



Tam Samson's dead ! 



Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane. 

An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane. 

An' deed her bairns, man, wife, and wean, 

In mourning weed ; 
To Death, she's dearly paid the kane, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

The Brethren o' the mystic level 
May hing their head in woefu' bevel, 



I 52 TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY. 



While by their nose the tears will revel. 
Like ony bead ; 

Death's gi'en the Lodge an unco devel, 
Tarn Samson's dead 1 



! When Winter muffles up his cloak, 

I And binds the mire like a rock ; 

j When to the loch the Curlers flock 
I Wi' gleesome speed, 

; Wha will they station at the cock, 
i Tam Samson's dead? 



He was the king o' a' the Core, 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore. 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar 

In time o' need ; 
But now he lags on Death's hog-score, 

Tam Samson's dead I 

Now safe the stately Sawmont sail. 
And Trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, 
And Eels weel kenn'd for souple tail, 

And Geds for greed. 
Since dark in Death's /s/t-cree^ we wail 

Tam Samson's dead 1 

Rejoice, ye birring Paitricks a' ; 

Ye cootie Moorcocks, crousely craw ; 

Ye Maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, 

Withouten dread ; 
Your mortal Fae is noo awa', 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd 
Saw him in shootin' graith adorn' d, 
While pointers round impatient burn'd, 

Frae couples freed ; 
But, Och I he gaed and ne'er return' d ! 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

In vain auld age his body batters ; 
In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; 
In vain the burns came down like waters, 

An acre braid ! 
Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin', clatters, 

* Tam Samson's dead ! ' 

Owre mony a weary hag he limpit. 
An' ay the tither shot he thumpit, 
Till coward Death behind him jumpit, 

Wi' deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 



TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY, 53 



When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel-aim'd heed ; 
* Lord, five ! ' he cried, an' owre did stagger; 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan' d a father; 
Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather, 

Marks out his head, 
Whare Burns has wrote in rhyming blether, 

* Tam Samson's dead ! ' 

There, low he lies, in lasting rest ; 
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast 
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest. 

To hatch and breed ; | 

Alas I nae mair he'll them molest ! | 

Tam Samson's dead ! 1 

When August winds the heather wave, j 

And sportsmen wander by yon grave, | 

Three volleys let his mem'ry crave | 

0' pouther an' lead, | 

Till Echo answer frae her cave, j 

Tam Samson's dead! 

Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be ! ' 

Is th' wish o' mony mae than me : 

He had twa faults, or maybe three, i 

Yet what remead ? j 
Ae social, honest man want we : 

Tam Samson's dead ! ! 



THE EPITAPH. 

Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies 
Ye canting zealots, spare him ! 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye'll mend or ye win near him. 



PER CONTRA. 

Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly 
Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie, 
Tell ev'ry social, honest billie 

To cease his grievin' ; 
Por yet, unskaith'd by Death's gleg gullie, 

Tam Samson's leevin' 1 



i 64 HALLOWEEN, 



HALLOWEEN. 

" Fes/ lei the rich deride, the proud disdain^ 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art," 

Goldsmith* 

Upon that night, when Fairies light 

On Cassilis Downans dance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prance ; 
Or for Colean the rout is ta'en, 

Beneath the moon's pale beams ; 
There, up the Cove, to stray an' rove 

Amang the rocks and streams 

To sport that night ; 

Amang the bonnie, winding banks, 

Where Doon rins, wimplin, clear, 
Where Bruce ance rul'd the martial ranks,. 

An' shook his Carrick spear. 
Some merry, friendly, countra folks 

Together did convene, 
To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, 

An' hand their Halloween 

Fu' blythe that night. 

The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when they're fine ; 
Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe, 

Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin : 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten. 
Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin 

Whyles fast at night. 

Then, first an' foremost, thro' the kail, 

Their stocks maun a' be sought ance : 
They steek their een, an' grape an' wale,. 

For muckle anes, an' straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, 

An' wander'd thro' the Bow-kail, 
An' pou't, for want o' better shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 

Then, straught or crooked, yird or naue> 
They roar an' cry a' throu'ther ; 

The very wee things, toddlin', rin, 
Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther : 



, HALLOWEEN. 55 I 

i An* gif the custock's sweet or sour, | 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; j 

I Syne coziely, aboon the door, j 

; Wi' cannie care, they've plac'd them \ 

I To lie that night. 

I The lasses staw frae 'mang them a' j 

I To pou their stalks o' corn ; \ 

j But Bab slips out, an' jinks about, | 

; Behint the muckle thorn : 

He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; 
I Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; i 

I But her tap-pickle maist was lost, j 

When kittlin i' the fause-house 
Wi' him that night. 

I The auld guidwife's weel-hoordet nits | 

i Are round an' round divided, ! 

I An' mony lads' and lasses' fates I 

' Are there that night decided : | 

I Some kindle, couthie, side by side, 

i An burn thegither trimly ; 

j Some start awa, wi' saucy pride. 

An' jump out-owre the chimlie \ 

I Fu' high that night. j 

i Jean slips in twa, wi' tentie e'e ; i 

j Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; 

But this is Jock, and this is me, I 

She says in to hersel : | 

i He bleez'd owre her, an' she owre him, 

j As they wad never mair part ; 

I Till fuff ! he started up the lum, j 

! An' Jean had e'en a sair heart j 

To see't that night. 

i Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, 

I Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie, 

I An' Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt, 

j To be compar'd to Willie : 

j Mall's nit lap out, wi' pridefu' fling. 

An' her ain fit it brunt it ; 

I While Willie lap, an' swore by jing, 

j 'Twas just the way he wanted 

i To be that night. 

j Nell had the fause-house in her min', 

i She pits hersel an' Kob in ; 

I In loving bleeze they sweetly join, 

Till white in ase they're sobbin' : 
I Nell's heart was dancin at the view ; 

She whisper' d Bob to leuk for't : 



56 HALL O WEEN^ 

Rob, stownlins, prie'd her bonnie mou, 
Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, 

Unseen that night. 

But Merran sat behint their backs, 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, 

An' slips out by hersel : 
She thro' the yard the nearest taks. 

An' to the kiln she goes then, 
An' darklins grapit for the banks, 

And in the blue-clue throws then, 

Right fear't that night. 

An' ay she win't, an' ay she swat, 

I wat she made nae jaukin' ; 
Till something held within the pat, 

Guid Lord ! but she was quaukin' ! 
But whether 'twas the Deil himsel, | 

Or whether 'twas a bauk-en', | 

Or whether it was Andrew Bell, | 

She did na wait on talkin' ! 

To spier that night. 

Wee Jenny to her Granny says, I 

' Will ye go wi' me, Granny ? j 

I'll eat the apple at the glass, j 

I gat frae uncle Johnny ; ' 
She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, | 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin', 
She notic't na, an aizle brunt 

Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro' that night. 

* Ye little Skelpie-limmer's face I 
I daur you try sic sportin', 

As seek the foul Thief ony place, j 

For him to spae your fortune ? ' 

Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! 
Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 

For mony a ane has gotten a fright, 
An' liv'd an' di'd deleeret. 

On sic a night. 

* Ae Hairst afore the Sherra-moor, 
I mind't as weel's yestreen, 

I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 

I was na past fifteen : 
The simmer had been cauld an' wat, 

An' stuff was unco' green ; 
An' ay a rantin' kirn we gat. 

An' just on Halloween 

It fell that night. 



HALLOWEEN, 57 



* Our stibble-rig was Bab M'Graen, 

A clever, sturdy fallow : 
His sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, 

That liv'd in Achmacalla ; 
He gat hemp -seed, I mind it weel, 

An' he made unco light o't ; 
But mony a day was hy himself 

He was sae sairly frighted 

That vera night.' 

Then up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck, 

An' he swore by his conscience, 
That he could saw hemp -seed a peck ; 

For it was a' but nonsense : 
The auld guidman raught down the pock, 

An' out a handfu' gied him ; 
Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk, | 

Sometime when nae ane see'd him, j 

An' try't that night. | 

i 

He marches thro' amang the stacks, I 

Tho' he was something sturtin ; 
The graip he for a harrow taks, | 

An' haurls at his curpin : ! 

An' ev'ry now an' then he says, j 

* Hemp-seed, I saw thee, 
An' her that is to be my lass, 

Come after me an' draw thee 

As fast this night.' 

He whistl'd up Lord Lenox' march. 

To keep his courage cheery ; 
Altho' his hair began to arch. 

He was sae fley'd an' eerie : 
Till presently he hears a squeak, 

An' then a grane an' gruntle ; 
He by his shouther gae a keek, 

An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle 

Out-owre that night. 

He roar'd a horrid murder- shout, 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
An' young an' auld come rinnin' out, 

An' hear the sad narration : 
He swore 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 

Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 
Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a' ; 

An' wha was it but Grumphie 

Asteer that night ! 

Meg fain wad to the barn gaen 
To winn three wechts o' naething ; 



1 



68 HALLOWEEN. 

j But for to meet the Deil her lane, 

i She pat but little faith in : 

She gies the Herd a pickle nits, 
And twa red-cheekit apples, 
" To watch, while for the barn she sets, 

I In hopes to see Tarn Kipples 

I That very night. 

I She turns the key, wi' cannie thraw, 

An' owre the threshold ventures; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca', 
Syne bauldly in she enters ; 
A ratton rattl'd up the wa'. 

An' she cry'd, Lord preserve her I 
An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a', 
I An' pray'd wi' zeal an' fervour, 

i Fu' fast that night. 

' They hoy't out Will, wi sair advice ; 

They hecht him some fine braw ane ; 
• It chanc'd the stack he faddom't thrice 

1 Was timmer-propt for thrawin' : 

He taks a swirlie, auld moss-oak, 
For some black, grousome Carlin ; 
I An' loot a winze, an' drew a stroke, 

; Till skin in blypes cam haurlin 

Aff's nieves that night. 

I A wanton widow Leezie was, 

I As cantie as a kittlin ; 

: But Och ! that night, amang the shaws, 

I She gat a fearfu' settlin ! 

She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, 
: An' owre the hill gaed scrievin, 

\ Whare three lairds' lands met at a burn, 

To dip her left sark-sleeve in, 
, Was bent that night. 



Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, j 

As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; j 
Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays ; 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; I 

Whyles glitter' d to the nightly rays, i 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; j 

Whyles cookit underneath the braes, j 

Below the spreading hazel, j 

Unseen that night. ; 

Amang the brachens on the brae, ! 

Between her an' the moon, j 

The Deil, or else an outler Quey, ! 

Gat up an' gae a croon : I 



HALLOWEEN. 59 ! 

1 — 



Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ; 

Near lav'rock height she jumpit, 
But mist a fit, an' in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The luggies three are ranged ; 
And ev'ry time great care is taen, I 

To see them duly changed : I 

Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys | 

Sin' Mar's -year did desire, 
Because he gat the toom dish thrice, 

He heav'd them on the fire 

In wrath that night. 

Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks, 

I wat they did na weary ; 
And unco tales, an' funny jokes. 

Their sports were cheap and cheery ; 
Till butter'd So'ns, wi' fragrant lunt. 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, 

They parted aff careerin' 

Fu' blythe that night. 



I THE JOLLY BEGGARS. j 

A CANTATA. j 

i RECITATIVO. I 

) i 

i When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, j 

I Or, wavering like the bauckie bird, j 

I Bedim cauld Boreas' blast : i 

i When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte^ \ 

i And infant frosts begin to bite, I 

j In hoary cranreuch drest ; | 

! Ae night, at e'en, a merry core I 

I 0' randie, gangrel bodies, \ 

I In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, t 

j To drink their orra duddies : ! 

j Wi' quafiing and laughing, j 

I They ranted and they sang ; 

i Wi' jumping and thumping, | 

I The verra girdle rang. | 



First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, 



60 THE JOLL Y BEGGARS, 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usquebae and blankets warm, 

She blinket on her sodger ; 
An' aye he gies the towsie drab 

The tither skelpin' kiss. 
While she held up her greedy gab 
Just like an aumous dish ; 
Ilk smack still did crack still, 

Just like a cadger's whip, 
Then staggering, and swaggering. 
He roar'd this ditty up — 

AIR. 

Tune — 'Soldier's Joy,'* 

I AM a son of Mars, who have been in many wars, 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come : 
This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, 
When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. 

Lai de daudle, etc. 

My 'prentiship I pass'd where my leader breath'd 

his last. 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram; 
I serv'd out my trade when the gallant game was play'd. 
And the Morro low was laid at the sound of the drum. 

Lai de daudle, etc. 

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries. 
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb : 
I Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, 
I I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum. 
i Lai de daudle, etc. 

j And now, tho' I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg, 
I And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, 
! I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet, 
' As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum. 

Lai de daudle, etc. 

What tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the winter 
shocks, 

Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home ; 
i When the t'other bag I sell, and the t'other bottle tell, 
i I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the drum. 
j Lai de daudle, etc. 



RECITATIVO. 

He ended ; and the kebars sheuk 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
While frighted rattons backward leuk 

And seek the benmost bore ; 






THE JOLL Y BEGGARS. 61 



rl- 



A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 

He skirFd out * Encore ' ! 
But up arose the martial chuck, 

And laid the loud uproar. 

AIR. 

Tune — * Soldier Laddie,* i 

I ONCE was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, j 

And still my delight is in proper young men ; ; 

Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, I 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, etc. \ 

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, ! 

To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; j 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, etc. \ 

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, | 

So the sword I forsook for the sake of the church : i 

He ventur'd the soul, I risked the body, j 

'Twas then I proved false to my sodger laddie. j 

Sing, Lal de lal, etc. j 

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, | 

The regiment at large for a husband I got ; j 

From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, j 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. ' 

Sing, Lal de lal, etc. 
But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, 
Till I met my old boy at a Cunningham fair : 
Has rags regimental they flutter' d so gaudy, \ 

My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, etc. 
And now I have liv'd — I know not how long, j 

And still I can join in a cup or a song ; | 

But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass! 
steady, \ 

Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, etc. 

RECITATIVO. 

Poor Merry Andrew, in the neuk, 

Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie ; 
They mind't na wha the chorus teuk, 

Between themselves they were sae busy. 
At length, wi' drink and courting dizzy, 

He stoitered up an' made a face ; 
Then turn'd, and laid a smack on Grizzy, 

Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace. 



62 THE JOLL V BEGGARS. 



AIR. 
Tune — * AuLd Sir Simon,* 

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, 

Sir Knave is a fool in a session ; 
He's there but a prentice I trow, 

But I am a fool by profession. 
My granny she bought me a beuk, 

And I held awa to the school ; 
I fear I my talent misteuk, 

But what will ye hae of a fool ? 
For drink I would venture my neck ; 

A hizzie's the half o' my craft ; 
But what could you other expect, 

Of ane that's avowedly daft ? 
I ance was ty'd up like a stirk, 

For civilly swearing and quaffing ; 
I ance was abus'd i' the kirk, 

For touzling a lass i' my daffing. 

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, 
Let naebody name wi' a jeer ; 

There's ev'n, I'm tauld, i' the court, 
A tumbler ca'd the Premier. 

Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad 

Maks faces to tickle the mob ; 
He rails at our mountebank squad — 

It's rivalship just i' the job. 
And now my conclusion I'll tell, 

For faith I'm confoundedly dry ; 
The chiel that's a fool for himsel', 

Gude Lord, is far dafter than I. 

RECITATIVO. 

Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterlizig, 
For mony a pursie she had hooked. 
And had in mony a well been dooked ; 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sabs she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman : 

AIR. 
Tune — '0, an' ye were dead, guidman,* 

A Highland lad my love was born, 
The Lawlan' laws he held in scorn : 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 



THE JOLL Y BEGGARS. 



CHORUS. 

Sing, hey, my braw John Highlandman ! 
Sing, ho, my braw John Highlandman ! 
There's no a lad in a' the Ian' 
Was match for my John Highlandman, 

With his philibeg an' tartan plaid, 
And gude claymore down by his side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan. 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, etc. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
And liv'd like lords and ladies gay; 
For a Lowlan' face he feared nane 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, etc. 

They banish'd him beyond the sea. 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, etc. 

But, oh I they catch' d him at the last. 
And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 
My curse upon them every ane. 
They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, etc. 

And now a widow, I must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne'er return ; 
No comfort but a hearty can. 
When I think on my John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, etc. 

RECITATIVO. 

A pigmy Scraper wi' his fiddle, 

Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, 

Her strappin limb and gaucy middle 

(He reach' d nae higher) 
Had hol't his heartie like a riddle, 

And blawn't on fire. 

Wi' hand on haunch, and upward e'e. 
He croon' d his gamut, one, two, three, 
Then, in an Arioso key. 

The wee Apollo 
Set aff, wi' Allegretto glee, 

His giga solo. 



64 THE fOLL V BEGGARS. 

AIR. 

Tune — * Whistle owre the lave o^t,' 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
And go wi' me and be my dear, 
And then your every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 



CHORUS. 

I am a fiddler to my trade, 
And a' the tunes that e'er I play'd, 
The sweetest still to wife or maid, 
Was whistle owre the lave o*t. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there, 
And oh I sae nicely' s we will fare ; 
We'll bouse about, till Daddie Care 
Sings whistle owre the lave o't. 

I am, etc. 

Sae merrily' s the banes we'll pyke, 
And sun oursels about the dyke. 
And at our leisure, when ye like, 
We'll whistle owre the lave o't. 

I am, etc. 

But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms, 
And while I kittle hair on thairms, 
Hunger, cauld, an a' sic harms, 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 

I am, etc. 

RECITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird, 

As well as poor Gut-scraper : 
He taks the fiddler by the beard. 

And draws a roosty rapier — 

He swore, by a' was swearing worth. 

To spit him like a pliver. 
Unless he wad from that time forth 

Eelinquish her for ever. 

Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-dee 

Upon his hunkers bended, 
And pray'd for grace, wi' ruefu' face, 

And sae the quarrel ended. 

But tho' his little heart did grieve 
When round the tinkler prest her, 

He feign' d to snirtle in his sleeve, 
When thus the Caird address' d her : 



THE JOLL V BEGGARS. 65 

AIR. 

Tune — * Clout the, Cauldron J 

My bonnie lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station ; 
I've travell'd round all Christian ground 

In this my occupation ; 
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroU'd 

In many a noble squadron ; 
But vain they search'd, when off I marched 

To go and clout the cauldron. 

I've ta'en the gold, etc. 

Despise that shrimp, that wither' d imp, 

Wi' a' his noise and cap'rin'. 
And tak a share wi' those that bear 

The budget and the apron ; 
And by that stoup, my faith and houp, 

And by that dear Kilbagie, 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 

May I ne'er weet my craigie. 

And by that stoup, etc. 

RECITATIVO. 
The Caird prevail' d — th' unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk, 
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, 

And partly she was drunk. 
Sir Violino, with an air 

That show'd a man o' spunk, 
Wish'd unison between the pair, 

And made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft 

That play'd a dame a shavie. 
The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft, 

Behint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, 

Tho' limpin wi' the spavie. 
He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft. 

And shor'd them Dainty Davie 
0' boot that night. 

He was a care defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid, 

His heart she ever miss'd it. 
He had nae wish, but — to be glad, 

Nor want but — when he thirsted ; 
He hated nought but — to be sad. 

And thus the Muse suggested 
His sang that night. 



66 THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 

j AIR. 

j Tune — * For a' that^ and a' that^ 

i I AM a bard of no regard 

I Wi' gentlefolks, an' a' that ; 

But Homer-like, the glowrin byke, 
Frae town to town I draw that. 

CHORUS. 

For a* that, and a' that, 

And twice as muckle's a' that ; 

I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', 
I've wife eneugh for a' that. 

I never drank the Muses' stank, 
Castalia's burn, an' a' that ; 

But there it streams, and richly reams, 
My Helicon I ca' that. 

For a' that, etc. 

Great love I bear to a' the fair, 
! Their humble slave, an' a' that ; 

j But lordly will, I hold it still 

j A mortal sin to thraw that. 

j For a' that, etc. 

j In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 

Wi' mutual love, an' a' that ; 
But for how lang the flie may stang, 
Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, etc. 

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft, 

They've ta'en me in, and a' that ; 
But clear your decks, and here's the sex ! 
; I like the jads for a' that. 

i For a' that, and a' that, 

And twice as muckle's a' that. 
My dearest bluid, to do them guid, 
They're welcome till't, for a' that. 



RECITATIVO. 

So sang the bard — and Nansie's wa's 
Shook with a thunder of applause, 

Ee-echo'd from each mouth ; 
They toom'd their pocks, and pawn'd their duds, 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, 

To quench their lowan drouth. 

Then owre again, the jovial thrang 
The poet did request, 



THE JOLL V BEGGARS. 67 



To lowse his pack, an' wale a sang, 

A ballad o' the best ; 
He, rising, rejoicing, 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, an' found them 

Impatient for the chorus. 

AIR. 
Tune — ^ Jolly Mortals^ fill your Glasses,^ 

See ! the smoking bowl before us, 
Mark our jovial ragged ring ; 

Bound and round take up the chorus, 
And in raptures let us sing : 

CHORUS. 

A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 

Churches built to please the priest. 

What is title ? what is treasure ? 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter, how or where I 



A fig, etc. i 



With the ready trick and fable, 
j Kound we wander all the day ; 

I And at night, in barn or stable, 

1 Hug our doxies on the hay, 

i A fig, etc. 

i 

j Does the train -attended carriage 

j Thro' the country lighter rove ? 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
; Witness brighter scenes of love ? 

A fig, etc. 

j Life is all a variorum, 

j We regard not how it goes; 

{ Let them cant about decorum 

Who have characters to lose. 
A fig, etc. 



Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets I | 

Here's to all the wandering train ! 

Here's our ragged brats and callets 1 j 

One and all cry out, Amen ! 
A fig, etc. 



68 AULD MARE MAGGIE. 



THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR 
MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS 
AULD MARE MAGGIE. 

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN 
TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. 

A GuiD New- Year I wish thee, Maggie 1 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie ; 
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie, 

I've seen the day. 
Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, 
An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisie, 
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, an' glaizie, 

A bonnie gray : 
He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, 

Ance in a day. 

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank, 
An' set weel down a shapely shank. 

As e'er tread yird ; 
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, 

Like ony bird. 

It's now some nine-an' -twenty year, 
Sin' thou was my guid-father's meare; 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 

An' fifty mark ; 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, 

An' thou was stark. 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin' wi' your minnie : 
Tho' ye was trickle, slee, an' funny, 

Ye ne'er was donsie ; 
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, 

An' unco sonsie. 

That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, 
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride ; 
An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyle- Stewart I could bragged wide. 

For sic a pair. 

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble. 
An' wintle like a saumont-coble, 



AULD MARE MAGGIE. 69 



That day ye was a j inker noble 

For heels an' win' I 

An' ran them till they a' did wauble, 
Far, far behin'. 

When thou an' I were young and skeigh, 

An- stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, 

How thou wad prance, an* snore, an' skreigh, 

An' tak the road I 
Town's-bodies ran, and stood abeigh, 

An' ca't thee mad. 

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, 
We took the road aye like a swallow : 
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, 

For pith an' speed ; 
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, 

Whare'er thou gaed. 

The sma', droop-rumpl't hunter cattle 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, 

An' gart them whaizle : 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 

O' saugh or hazel. 

Thou was a noble fittie-lan', 

As e'er in tug or tow was drawn I 

Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, 

On guid March weather, 
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han'. 

For days thegither. 

Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit. 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, 
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, 

Wi' pith an' pow'r. 
Till spritty knowes wad rair't and riskit, 

An' slypet owre. 

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep. 
An' threaten'd labour back to keep, 
I gied thy cog a wee -bit heap 

Aboon the timmer ; 
I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit ; 
The steyest brae thou wad hae f ac't it ; 
Thou never lap, an' sten't, and breastit, 

Then stood to blaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 

Thou snoov't awa. 



70 AULD MARE MAGGIE. 

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a' : 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; 
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa, 

That thou hast nurst : 
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, 

The very warst. 

Mony a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, 
An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! 
An' mony an anxious day, I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' something yet. 

An' think na, my auld, trusty servan', 
That now perhaps thou's less deservin', 
An' thy auld days may end in starving 

For my last fow, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither ; 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 
W' tentie care I'll flit thy tether 

To some hain'd rig, 
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 

W sma' fatigue. 



TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP 
IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, 
NOV., 1785. 

Web, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa sae hastie, 

Wi' bickering brattle I 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murd'ring pattle ! 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion, 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion. 

An' fellow-mortal ! 

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; 
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live 



TO A MOUSE. 71 ; 



A daimen-icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request : 

I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, 

And never miss't ! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! 
An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green 1 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Baith snell an' keen ! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, 
An' weary winter comin' fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast. 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald. 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble 

An' cranreuch cauld I 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane. 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men 

Gang aft a-gley, 
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, 

For promis'd joy. 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me I 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But, Och ! I backward cast my e'e 

On prospects drear ! 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess an' fear I 



A WINTER NIGHT. 

** Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you ore, 
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm / 
Hoio shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides, 
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you 
From seasons such as these ? " 

— Shakespeare, 

When biting Boreas, fell and doure. 
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r ; 



72 A WINTER NIGHT. 



When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r 
Far south the lift, 

Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r, 
Or whirling drift : 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked, 
While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up -choked, 

Wild-eddying swirl, 
Or thro' the mining outlet bocked, 

Down headlong hurl. 

List'ning the doors' an' winnocks' rattle, 
I thought me on the ourie cattle. 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 

0' winter war. 
And thro' the drift, deep -lairing, sprattle 

Beneath a scaur. 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing ! 
That, in the merry months o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing. 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing 

An' close thy e'e ? 

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, 

Lone from your savage homes exil'd, 

The blood-stain' d roost, and sheep-cot spoil'd, 

My heart forgets, 
While pitiless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, 
Dark-muffl'd view'd the dreary plain ; 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

Eose in my soul, 
When on my ear this plaintive strain. 

Slow, solemn, stole — 

* Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust I 
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost ! 
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
Not all your rage, as now, united shows 

More hard unkindness, unrelenting, 

Vengeful malice unrepenting, 
Than heav'n-illumin'd man on brother man bestows! 
See stern Oppression's iron grip, 

Or mad Ambition's gory hand. 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 

Woe, want, and murder o'er a land I 
Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale. 
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 



A WINTER NIGHT. 73 



How pamper'd Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side, 
The parasite empoisoning her ear, 
With all the servile wretches in the rear. 

Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; 
And eyes the simple rustic hind. 

Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, 
A creature of another kind, 
Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, 

Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below 

* Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, 
With lordly Honour's lofty brow. 

The pow'rs you proudly own ? 
Is there, beneath Love's noble name, 
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim. 

To bless himself alone ! 
Mark maiden-innocence a prey 

To love-pretending snares. 
This boasted honour turns away, 
Shunning soft pity's rising sway, 

Kegardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs ! 
Perhaps this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest. 
She strains your infant to her joyless breast. 

And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking \ 
blast ! 

* Oh ye I who, sunk in beds of down, 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create. 
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate. 

Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
Ill-satisfied keen nature's clam'rous call, 

Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, 
While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 

Chill o'er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap I 
Think on the dungeon's grim confine. 
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine I 
Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! 
But shall thy legal rage pursue 
The wretch, already crushed low. 
By cruel fortune's undeserved blow ? 

Affliction's sons are brothers in distress ; 

A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss ! ' 

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer 

Shook off the pouthery snaw, 
And hail'd the morning with a cheer, 

A cottage-rousing craw. 

But deep this truth impress'd my mind — 

Thro' all His works abroad. 
The heart benevolent and kind 

The most resembles God, 



\ 74 EPISTLE TO DA VIE, 



EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET. | 

/anwary— [1784], 

While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, 
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 

And hing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down, to pass the time, 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme 

In hamely, westlin jingle. 
While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the Great-folks' gift, 
That live sae bien an' snug : 
I tent less, and want less 
Their roomy fire-side ; 
But hanker and canker 
To see their cursed pride. 

It's hardly in a body's pow'r 

To keep, at times, frae being sour, 

To see how things are shar'd ; 
How best o' chiels are whiles in want. 
While coofs on countless thousands rant, 

And ken na how to wair't : 
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 

Tho' we hae little gear. 
We're fit to win our daily bread 
As lang's we're hale and fier : 
* Mair spier na, nor fear na,' 
Auld age ne'er mind a feg ; 
The last o't, the warst o't. 
Is only but to beg. 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en. 

When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin, 

Is, doubtless, great distress I 
Yet then content could mak us blest ; 
Ev'n then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile. 
However fortune kick the ba'. 
Has aye some cause to smile : 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma' ; 
Nae mair then, we'll care then, 
Nae farther can we fa'. 

What tho', like commoners of air. 
We wander out, we know not where, 



EPISTLE TO DA VIE. 75 



But either house or hall ? 
Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground, 

And blackbirds whistle clear, 
With honest joy our hearts will bound 
To see the coming year : 

On braes when we please, then, 

We'll sit and sowth a tune ; 
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time tilPt, 
And sing't when we hae done. 

It's no in titles nor in rank, 

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in making muckle ma^r, 
It's no in books, it's no in lear, 

To make us truly blest : 
If happiness hae not her seat 

And centre in the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great. 
But never can be blest : 

Nae treasures, nor pleasures. 

Could make us happy lang ; 
The heart ay's the part ay ! 

That makes us right or wrang. | 

Think ye, that sic as you and I, 

Wha drudge and drive thro' wet an' dry, I 

Wi' never-ceasing toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way. 

As hardly worth their while ? I 

Alas ! how aft in haughty mood, j 

God's creatures they oppress ! ; 

Or else, neglecting a' that's guid. 
They riot in excess ! 
Baith careless, and fearless, 
Of either heav'n or hell I 
Esteeming, and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale ! 

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; i 

Nor make our scanty pleasures less. 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit of age to youth ; 

They let us ken oursel ; 



76 EPISTLE TO DA VIE, 

They mak us see the naked truth, 
The real guid and ill. 
Tho' losses and crosses 

Be lessons right severe, 
There's wit there, ye'll get there, 
Ye'll get nae other where. 

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! 

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, 

And flatt'ry I detest) 
This life has joys for you and I ; 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy: 

And joys the very best. 
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart. 

The lover an' the f rien' ; 
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part. 
And I my darling Jean I 
It warms me, it charms me. 

To mention but her name : 
It heats me, it beets me, 
And sets me a' on flame I 

O all ye pow'rs who rule above 1 
Thou, whose very self art love ! 

Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, 
Or my more dear immortal part, 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive my soul of rest, 
Her dear idea brings relief 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, All-seeing, 

O hear my fervent pray'r ; 
Still take her, and make her 
I Thy most peculiar care ! 

All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
The smile of love, the friendly tear. 

The sympathetic glow ! 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had number' d out my weary days, 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has blest me with a friend 

In every care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene. 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 



EPISTLE TO DA VIE. 77 



O, how that name inspires my style I 
The words come skelpin, rank and file, 

Amaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rins as fine, 
As Phoebus and the famous Nine 

Were glowrin owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 

Till ance he's fairly het ; 
And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp, 
An' rin an unco fit : 

But lest then, the beast then, 
Should rue this hasty ride, 
I'll light now, and dight now 
His sweaty, wizen' d hide. 



THE LAMENT, 

OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A 
FRIEND'S AMOUR. 

** Alas! how oft does Goodness wound itself, 
And sweet Affection prove the syring of woe !" 

—Home. 

THOTJ pale Orb, that silent shines. 
While care -untroubled mortals sleep ! 

Thou seest a wretch that inly pines. 
And wanders here to wail and weep 1 

With woe I nightly vigils keep. 
Beneath thy wan unwarming beam ; 

And mourn, in lamentation deep. 
How life and love are all a dream. 

1 joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly marked, distant hill ; 
I joyless view thy trembling horn 

Eeflected in the gurgling rill : 
My fondly-fluttering heart be still ! 

Thou busy pow'r, Eemembrance, cease I 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

For ever bar returning peace ? 

No idly feign'd poetic pains. 

My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim; 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame : 
The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 

The oft attested Pow'rs above ; 
The x)romis'd father's tender name : 

These were the pledges of my love ! 



78 THE LAMENT, 



Encircled in her clasping arms. 

How have the raptur'd moments flown! 
How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake, and hers alone 1 
And must I think it ! is she gone, 

My secret heart's exulting boast? 
And does she heedless hear my groan ? 

And is she ever, ever lost ? 

Oh I can she bear so base a heart, 

So lost to honour, lost to truth. 
As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth I 
Alas I life's path may be unsmooth ! 

Her way may lie through rough distress 1 
Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe, 

Her sorrows share, and make them less ? 

Ye winged hours that o'er us passed, 

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, 
Your dear remembrance in my breast 

My fondly treasur'd thoughts employ'd. 
That breast how dreary now, and void, 

For her too scanty once of room I 
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, 

And not a wish to gild the gloom 1 

The morn that warns th' approaching day 
Awakes me up to toil and woe : 

I see the hours in long array, 
j That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 

Full many a pang, and many a throe, 
I Keen recollection's direful train, 

I Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, 

I Shall kiss the distant, western main. 

And when my nightly couch I try, 
Sore harass' d out with care and grief, 
! My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, 

I Keep watchings with the nightly thief : 

! Or, if I slumber. Fancy, chief, 

Eeigns, haggard- wild, in sore affright : 
Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief 
From such a horror-breathing night. 

i ! thou bright Queen, who o'er the expanse 

I Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway I 

Oft hast thy silent-marking glance 
I Observ'd us, fondly wand'ring stray ! 

j The time, unheeded, sped away, 

i While love's luxurious pulse beat high, 

Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray. 
To mark the mutual-kindling eye. 



THE LAMENT. 79 



Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set 
Scenes, never, never to return ! 

Scenes, if in stupor I forget, 
Again I feel, again I burn ! 

From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, 
Life's weary vale I'll wander thro* ; 

And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 
A faithless woman's broken vow. 



DESPONDENCY. 
AN ODE. 



■ Oppress'© with grief, oppress'd with care, 

I A burden more than I can bear, I 

I set me down and sigh ; 
; life ! thou art a galling load, 

I Along a rough, a weary road, 

! To wretches such as I ! i 

I Dim-backward as I cast my view, 1 

I What sick'ning scenes appear 1 I 

I What sorrows yet may pierce me thro', j 

; Too justly I may fear ! 1 

Still caring, despairing, j 

; Must be my bitter doom ; ! 

: My woes here shall close ne'er, I 

But with the closing tomb ! 1 

i Happy, ye sons of busy life, 

I Who, equal to the bustling strife, \ 

No other view regard 1 \ 

j Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd, i 

j Yet while the busy means are ply'd, ! 

They bring their own reward : j 

Whilst I, a hope-abandon' d wight, | 

Unfitted with an aim, j 

j Meet ev'ry sad returning night j 

j And joyless morn the same ; j 

; You, bustling, and justling, \ 

Forget each grief and pain ; • 

I, listless, yet restless, i 

I Find every prospect vain, 

j How blest the Solitary's lot, ] 

1 Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot, ! 

! Within his humble cell, | 

The cavern wild with tangling roots, i 

I Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, j 

I Beside his crystal well ! I 



80 DESPONDENC Y. 

Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought, 

By unfrequented stream, 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint-collected dream : 
While praising, and raising 

His thoughts to Heav'n on high, 
As wand'ring, meand'ring. 
He views the solemn sky. 
Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd 
Where never human footstep trac'd, 

Less fit to play the part ; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
And just to stop, and just to move. 

With self-respecting art : 
But ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys, 

Which I too keenly taste. 
The Solitary can despise, 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not, 

Or human love or hate. 
Whilst I here, must cry here 
At perfidy ingrate ! 
Oh ! enviable, early days. 
When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, 

To care, to guilt unknown ! 
How ill exchang'd for riper times, 
To feel the follies, or the crimes. 

Of others, or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport 

Like linnets in the bush. 
Ye little know the ills ye court. 
When manhood is your wish I 
The losses, the crosses, 

That active man engage ! 
The fears all, the tears all, 
Of dim-declining age. 



WINTER. 
A DIRGE. 

The wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw ; 
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw : 
While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down, 

And roars frae bank to brae : 
And bird and beast in covert rest. 

And pass the heartless day. 



WINTER. 81 



** The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," 

The joyless winter-day, 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 

My griefs it seems to join ; 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine ! 

Thou Pow'r Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil. 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are Thy will ! 
Then all I want, (Oh ! do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny. 

Assist me to resign. 



THE COTTAR'S SATURDAY NIGHT, 

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ., OF AYR. 

" Ltt not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; 
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the Poor." 

—Gray. 

My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend ! 

No mercenary bard his homage pays : 
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end ; 

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise. 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays. 

The lowly train in life's sequester 'd scene; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ! 

What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; 
Ah I tho'his worth unknown,far happier there,I ween. 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sough : 

The short'ning winter-day is near a close; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 

The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose : 
The toil-worn Cottar frae his labour goes, 

This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes. 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, [bend. 
And, weary, o'er the moor, his course does homeward 

At length his lonely cot appears in view. 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher through 

To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin' noise an' glee. 

3E 



82 THE COTTAR'S SATURDAY NI GHT. 

His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnilie, 

His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 

Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, 
An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. 

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, 

At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 

A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e. 
Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown, 

Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

With joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet. 

An* each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet ; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers. 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Their master's an' their mistress's command, 

The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand. 

An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : 
An' ! be sure to fear the Lord alway, 

♦ An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. 

Implore His counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright! ' 

But hark I a rap comes gently to the door ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor. 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
Wi' heart -struck, anxious care, inquires his name, 

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; [rake. 
Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless 

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ; 

A strappan youth ; he takes the mother's eye ; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy. 

But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave ; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 



THE COTTAR'S SATURDAY NIGHT, 83 



What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave ; 
Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the 
lave. 

O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 

heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare — 
If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair 

In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, [gale. 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart — 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
€urse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth ! 

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild ! 

But now the supper crowns their simple board, 

The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food : 
The soupe their only Hawkie does afford, 

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood ; 
The dame brings forth in complimental mood. 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell. 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell. 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face. 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace. 

The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride : 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide. 

He wales a portion with judicious care, 
And 'Let us worship God! ' he says, with solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise, 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name ; 
Or noble Elgin beets the heav'nward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ; 

The tickl'd ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; \ 

jNae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 



84 THE COTTAR'S SA TURD A V NIGHT 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; 
Or other holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, 

Had not on earth whereon to lay His head ; 
How His first followers and servants sped ; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land ; 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by 
Heaven's command. 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope * springs exulting on triumphant wing,' 

That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
There ever bask in uncreated rays. 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear ; [sphere. 

While circling Time moves round in an eternal 

Compar'd with this, how poor Keligion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method, and of art. 
When men display to congregations wide 

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 
The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert. 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul ; 
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enrol. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay. 

And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request, 
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride. 
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best. 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : 



THE COTTAR'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 85 

Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
' An honest man's the noblest work of God : * 

And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 
The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 

What is a lordling's pomp ? a cumbrous load, 
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 

Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! 
And, oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ; 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle. 

O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 

That streamed thro' Wallace's undaunted heart ; 
Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art. 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert, 

But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard. 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN, 
A DIRGE. 

When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare. 
One ev'ning as I wander' d forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spy'd a man, whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
His face was furrow' d o'er with years. 

And hoary was his hair. 

Young stranger, whither wand' rest thou ? 

Began the rev' rend Sage ; 
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ? 
Or, haply, prest with cares and woes, 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me, to mourn 

The miseries of Man. 

The sun that overhangs yon moors, 
Out-spreading far and wide, 



86 MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 



Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride ; 
I've seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
And ev'ry time has added proofs 

That Man was made to mourn, 

man ! while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Mis-spending all thy precious hours. 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force give nature's law 

That Man was made to mourn. 

Look not alone on youthful prime. 

Or manhood's active might ; 
Man then is useful to his kind. 

Supported is his right. 
But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn, 
Then age and want. Oh ! ill-match'd pair t 

Show Man was made to mourn. 

A few seem favourites of fate. 

In pleasure's lap carest ; 
Yet, think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, Oh ! what crowds in ev'ry land 

Are wretched and forlorn ; 
Thro' weary life this lesson learn. 

That Man was made to mourn. 

Many and sharp the num'rous ills 

Inwoven with our frame ! 
More pointed still we make ourselves, 

Kegret, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heaven-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn I 

See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight. 

So abject, mean, and vile, 
\Vho begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellow- worm 

The poor petition spurn. 
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 
If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,. 

By nature's law design'd. 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN, 87 



Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind? 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty or scorn ? 
Or why has man the will and pow'r 

To make his fellow mourn ? 

Yet, let not this too much, my son, 

Disturb thy youthful breast ; 
This partial view of human-kind 

Is surely not the last ! 
The poor, oppressed, honest man 

Had never, sure, been born, 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 

Death ! the poor man's dearest friend, 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest I 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

From pomp and pleasure torn ; 
But, Oh ! a blest relief to those 

That weary -laden mourn ! 



A PRAYER, IN THE PROSPECT OF 
DEATH. 

Thou unknown. Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear ! 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour. 

Perhaps I must appear ! 

If I have wander' d in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As something, loudly in my breast. 

Remonstrates I have done ; 

Thou know'st that Thou hast form'd me 

With passions wild and strong ; 
And list'ning to their witching voice 

Has often led me wrong. 

Where human weakness has come short. 

Or frailty stept aside, 
Do Thou, All- Good ! for such Thou art. 

In shades of darkness hide. 

Where ^ith intention I have err'd, 

No other plea I have, 
But, Thou art good ; and Goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



88 STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene ? 

Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ? 
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between : 

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms ; 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 

Or Death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 

I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath His sin-avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, * Forgive my foul offence ! ' 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But, should my Author health again dispense, 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; 
Again in folly's path might go astray ; 

Again exalt the brute, and sink the man ; 
Then how should I for Heavenly mercy pray. 

Who act so counter Heavenly mercy's plan ? 
Who sin so oft have mourn 'd, yet to temptation ran? 

O Thou, great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

And still the tumult of the raging sea : 
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me, 

Those headlong furious passions to confine, 
For all unfit I feel my powers to be. 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ; 
O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine ! 



LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S 
HOUSE ONE NIGHT. 

THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING VERSES 
IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. 

Thou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above, 

I know Thou wilt me hear ; 
When for this scene of peace and love 

I make my pray'r sincere. 

The hoary sire — the mortal stroke. 

Long, long, be pleas'd to spare. 
To bless his little filial flock, 

And show what good men are. 

She, who her lovely offspring eyes 
With tender hopes and fears, 



VERSES LEFT A T FRIEND'S HOUSE. 



0, bless her with a mother's joys, 
But spare a mother's tears ! 

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, 

In manhood's dawning blush; 
Bless him, thou God of love and truth, 

Up to a parent's wish. 

The beauteous, seraph sister-band, 

With earnest tears I pray. 
Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand, 

Guide Thou their steps alway. 

When soon or late they reach that coast, 

O'er life's rough ocean driven, 
May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 

A family in Heaven 1 



THE FIRST PSALM. 

The man, in life wherever plac'd. 

Hath happiness in store. 
Who walks not in the wicked's way, 

Nor learns their guilty lore : 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride 
Casts forth his eyes abroad. 

But with humility and awe 
Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 
Which by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread on high, 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt 
Shall to the ground be cast. 

And like the rootless stubble tost 
Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore 
Hath giv'n them peace and rest. 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



A PRAYER, UNDER THE PRESSURE 
OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. 

Thou great Being ! what Thou art 
Surpasses me to know : 



90 PR A YER, UNDER VIOLENT ANGUISH. 



Yet sure I am, that known to Thee 
Are all Thy works below. 

Thy creature here before Thee stands, 

All wretched and distrest ; 
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 

Obey Thy high behest. 

Sure, Thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
0, free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be. 

To suit some wise design ; 
Then, man my soul with firm resolves 

To bear and not repine ! 



THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE 
NINETEENTH PSALM. 

Thou, the first, the greatest friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling-place ! 

Before the mountains heav'd their heads 

Beneath Thy forming hand, 
Before this ponderous globe itself 

Arose at Thy command ; 

That pow'r which rais'd and still upholds 

This universal frame. 
From countless, unbeginning time 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years 

Which seem to us so vast, 
Appear no more before Thy sight 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou giv'st the word; Thy creature, man. 

Is to existence brought ; 
Again, Thou say'st, ' Ye sons of men, 

Beturn ye into nought ! ' 

Thou layest them, with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood Thou tak'st them off 

With overwhelming sweep. 



FIRST SIX VERSES OF PSALM XIX. 91 



They flourish like the morning flow'r, 

In beauty's pride array'd ; 
But long ere night cut down it lies 

All wither'd and decay'd. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, 
IN APRIL, 1786. 

Wee, modest, crimson -tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem. 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 

Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 

The bonnie Lark, companion meet ! , ,. 

Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 

Wi' speckl'd breast, 
When upward- springing, blythe, to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield. 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield^ 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

0' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-field. 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet flow' ret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betray' d. 

And guileless trusty 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 



92 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 



Such is the fate of simple Bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er ! 
Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n. 
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, 
By human pride or cunning driv'n 

To mis'ry's brink, 
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, 

He, ruin'd, sink ! 

Ev'n thou who mourn' st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Euin's ploughshare drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom. 
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thy doom ! 



TO RUIN. 

All hail I inexorable lord ! 

At whose destruction-breathing word 

The mightiest empires fall I 
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train. 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 
And quivers in my heart. 
Then low'ring, and pouring. 

The storm no more I dread ; 
Tho' thick'ning and black'ning 
Bound my devoted head. 
And, thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, 
While life a pleasure can afford, 

Oh ! hear a wretch's pray'r ! 
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid ; 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid. 
To close this scene of care ! 
When shall my soul, in silent peace, 

Besign life's joyless day ; 
My weary heart its throbbings cease, 
Cold-mould'ring in the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear more. 
To stain my lifeless face. 
Enclasped and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace ! 



TO MISS LOGAN. 



93 



TO MISS LOGAN, WITH BEATTIE'S 
POEMS, 

FOR A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT, JANUARY 1, 1787. 

Again the silent wheels of time 
Their annual round have driv'n, 

And you, tho* scarce in maiden prime, 
Are so much nearer Heav'n. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts 

The infant year to hail ; 
I send you more than India boasts, 

In Edwin's simple tale. 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 

Is charg'd, perhaps too true ; 
But may, dear Maid, each lover prove 

An Edwin still to you ! 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 

MAY, 1786. 

I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, 

A something to have sent you, 
Tho' it should serve nae ither end 

Than just a kind memento ; 
But how the subject theme may gang, 

Let time and chance determine ; 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang. 

Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

Ye'll try the world fu' soon, my lad. 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad. 

And muckle they may grieve ye : 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

Ev'n when your end's attained ; 
And a' your views may come to nought, 

Where ev'ry nerve is strained. 

I'll no say men are villains a' ; 

The real, harden'd, wicked, 
Wha hae nae check but human law, 

Are to a few restricked : 
But Och ! mankind are unco weak. 

An' little to be trusted ; 
If self the wavering balance shake. 

It's rarely right adjusted ! 



._! 



94 EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND, 



Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, 

Their fate we should na censure, 
For still th' important end of life 

They equally may answer ; 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare him ; 
A man may tak a neebor's part. 

Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 

Aye free, aff han' your story tell, 

When wi' a bosom crony ; 
But still keep something to yoursel 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
But keek thro' ev'ry other man 

Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. 

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should divulge it ; 
I waive the quantum o' the sin. 

The hazard o' concealing ; 
But Och I it hardens a' within. 

And petrifies the feeling ! 

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 
And gather gear by ev'ry wile 

That's justifi'd by honour ; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge, 

Nor for a train attendant ; 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent. 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip 

To haud the wretch in order ; 
But where ye feel your honour grip, 

Let that aye be your border : 
It's slightest touches, instant pause — 

Debar a' side pretences ; 
And resolutely keep its laws. 

Uncaring consequences. 

The great Creator to revere, 

Must sure become the creature ; 
But still the preaching cant forbear. 

And ev'n the rigid feature : 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An Atheist-laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity offended I 



I 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND, 95 



When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 

Eeligion may be blinded ; 
Or, if she gie a random sting, 

It may be little minded : 
But when on life we're tempest-driv'n, 

A conscience but a canker — 
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n 

Is sure a noble anchor 1 

Adieu, dear, amiable Youth ! 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting I 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth, 

Erect your brow undaunting 1 
In ploughman phrase, 'God send you speed' 

Still daily to grow wiser ; 
And may you better reck the rede 

Than ever did th' Adviser ! 



ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE 
WEST INDIES. 

A' YE wha live by sowps o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo-link, 
A' ye wha live an' never think, 

Come mourn wi' me ! 
Our billie's gi'en us a' a jink. 

An' owre the sea. 

Lament him a' ye rantin core, 
Wha dearly like a random- splore, 
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar. 

In social key ; 
For now he's ta'en anither shore, 

An' owre the sea. 

The bonnie lasses weel may miss him. 
And in their dear petitions place him : 
The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, 

Wi' tearfu' e'e ; 
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him 

That's owre the sea ! 

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble ! 
Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy bummle, 
Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 

'Twad been nae plea ; 
But he was gleg as ony wumble. 

That's owre the sea! 

Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear. 
An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; 



96 



ON A SCOTCH BARD. 



'Twill mak her poor, auld heart, I fear, 

In flinders flee ; 
He was her Laureat mony a year 

That's owre the sea ! 

He saw misfortune's cauld nor' -west 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast : 
A jillet brak his heart at last, 

111 may she be ! 
So, took a berth afore the mast, 

An' owre the sea. 

To tremble under Fortune's cummock, 
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, 
Wi' his proud independent stomach, 

Could ill agree ; 
So, row't his hurdies in a hammock, 

An' owre the sea. 

He ne'er was gi'en to great misguidin' ; 
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in; 
W him it ne'er was under hidin'. 

He dealt it free : 
The Muse was a' that he could pride in, 

That's owre the sea. 

Jamaica bodies use him weel. 
An' hap him in a cozie biel ; 
Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel. 

An' fu' o' glee ; 
He wad na wrang'd the very deil. 

That's owre the sea. 

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie ! 
Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 
But may ye flourish like a lily, 

Now bonnilie ! 
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea ! 



TO A HAGGIS. 



Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race ! 
Aboon them a' ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm 
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace 

As lang's my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your hurdies like a distant hill, 



TO A HAGGIS. 9T 



Your pin wad help to mend a mill 
In time o' need, 

While thro' your pores the dews distil 
Like amber bead. 

His knife see rustic labour dight, 
An' cut you up wi' ready slight, 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright 

Like ony ditch ; 
And then, what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reekin, rich ! 

Then, horn for horn they stretch an' strive, 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, 
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld guidman, maist like to rive, 

Bethankit hums. 

Is there that o'er his French ragout, 
Or olio that wad staw a sow, 
Or fricassee wad mak her spew 

Wi' perfect scunner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view 

On sic a dinner ? 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash. 

As feckless as a wither' d rash, 

His spindle shank a guid whip -lash, 

His nieve a nit : 
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, 

how unfit ! 

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed. 

The trembling earth resounds his tread, 

Clap in his walie nieve a blade. 

He'll mak it whissle ; 
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sued, 

Like taps o' thrissle. 

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care, 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware 

That jaups in luggies ; 
But, if you wish her gratefu' prayer, 

Gie her a Haggis I 



A DEDICATION TO GAVIN 

HAMILTON, ESQ. 

Expect na. Sir, in this narration, 
A fleechin', fleth'rin' Dedication, 



98 TO GA VIN HAMIL TON, ESQ. 



To roose you up, an' ca* you guid, 
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid, 
Because ye're sirnam'd like his Grace, 
Perhaps related to the race ; 
Then when I'm tir'd — and sae are ye, 
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie. 
Set up a face, how I stop short, 
Eor fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' them wha 
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou ; 
For me ! sae laigh I needna bow. 
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough ; 
And when I downa yoke a naig, 
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg : 
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin', 
It's just sic Poet an' sic Patron. 

The Poet, some guid angel help him, 
Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him ! 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet, 
But only — he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron (Sir, ye maun forgi'e me, 
I winna lie, come what will o' me). 
On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be. 
He's just — nae better than he should be. 

I readily and freely grant. 
He downa see a poor man want ; 
What's no his ain he winna tak it, 
What ance he says he winna break it ; 
Ought he can lend he'll not refus't. 
Till aft his guidness is abus'd ; 
And rascals whiles that do him wrang, 
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang : 
As master, landlord, husband, father. 
He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that ; 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; 
It's naething but a milder feature 
Of our poor, sinfu', corrupt nature : 
Ye' 11 get the best o' moral works, 
Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 
Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 
That he's the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word and deed. 
It's no thro' terror of damnation; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 



Morality, thou deadly bane, 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain 1 
Vain is his hope, whase stay and trust is 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice ! 

No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Steal thro' the winnock frae a whore, 
But point the rake that tak's the door : 
Be to the poor like ony whunstane. 
And hand their noses to the grunstane, 
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving ; 
No matter — stick to sound believing. 

Learn three-mile pray'rs, an' half-mile graces, 
Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang, wry faces : 
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen' d groan, 
And damn a' parties but your own : 
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 

ye wha leave the springs of Calvin, 
For gumlie dubs of your ain del Yin' ! 
Ye sons of heresy and error,, 
Ye' 11 some day squeel in quaking terror ! 
When vengeance draws the s^Tord in wrath. 
And in the fire throws the sheath ; 
When Ruin, with his sweeping bosom. 
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him : 
While o'er the harp pale mis'ry moans, 
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones, 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! 

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, 
I maist forgat my dedication ; 
But when divinity comes 'cross me, 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, 
But I maturely thought it proper. 
When a' my works I did review, 
To dedicate them, Sir, to You : 
Because (ye need na tak it ill) 
I thought them something like yourseP. 

Then patronise them wi' your favour, 
And your petitioner shall ever — 
I had amaist said ever pray ; 
But that's a word I need na say; 
For prayin' I hae little skill o't; 
I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o*t. 
But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r, 
That kens or hears about you, Sir. 



1.0FC. 



100 TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ, 



* May ne'er Misfortune's gowling bark 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk ! 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart ; 
May Kennedy's far-honour'd name 
Lang beat his hymeneal flame, 
Till Hamiltons at least a dizzen 
Are frae their nuptial labours risen : 
Five bonnie lasses round their table, 
And seven braw fellows, stout an' able 
To serve their King and Country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, with mutual rays, 
Shine on the evening o' his days ; 
Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe. 
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow ! 

I will not wind a lang conclusion, 
Wi' complimentary effusion : 
But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours, 
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent. 
Your much indebted, humble servant. 

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent) 
That iron-hearted carl. Want, 
Attended in his grim advances, 
By sad mistakes, and black mischances, 
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, 
Make you as poor a dog as I am. 
Your humble servant then no more ; 
For who would humbly serve the poor ? 
But, by a poor man's hopes in heaven ! 
While recollection's pow'r is given. 
If, in the vale of humble life. 
The victim sad of fortune's strife, 
I, thro' the tender gushing tear. 
Should recognise my Master dear. 
If friendless, low, we meet together. 
Then, Sir, your hand — my Friend and Brother ! 



TO A LOUSE, 

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT 
CHURCH. 

Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crawlin ferlie ! 
Your impudence protects you sairly : 



TO A LOUSE. 101 



I canna say but ye strunt rarely, 

Owre gauze and lace ; 

Tho', faith, I fear ye dine but spareJy 
On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, 
Detested, shunn'd, by saunt an' sinner, 
How dare ye set your fit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady ! 
Oae somewhere else, and seek your dinner 

On some poor body. 

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ; 
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle 
Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle, 

In shoals and nations ; 
Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now haud ye there, ye're out o' sight, 
Below the fatt'rels, snug an' tight ; 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right 

Till ye've got on it, 
The vera tapmost, tow'ring height 

0' Miss's bonnet. 

My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose out, 
As plump and gray as ony grozet ; 

for some rank, mercurial rozet. 

Of fell, red smeddum, 
I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't. 

Wad dress your droddum ! 

1 wad na been surpris'd to spy 
You on an auld wife's flainen toy; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On 's wyliecoat; 
But Miss's fine Lunardi ! fie. 

How daur ye do't ? 

O, Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
An' set your beauties a' abread ! 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin' ! 
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread 

Are notice takin' ! 

O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us 
To see oursels as others see us ! 
It wad frae mony a blunder free us 

And foolish notion : 
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, 

And ev'n Devotion ! 



102 ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly- scatter' d flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray' d, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 

Here Wealth still swells the golden tide^ 

As busy Trade his labours plies ; 
There Architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
Here Justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod ; 
There Learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks Science in her coy abode. 

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind. 

Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim : 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name ! 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, 

Gay as the gilded summer sky. 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy ! 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye. 

Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine ; 
I see the Sire of Love on high. 

And own his work indeed divine ! 

There watching high the least alarms, 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; 
Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms. 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar : 
The pond'rous wall and massy bar. 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock. 
Have oft withstood assailing war. 

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. 

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, 
I view that noble, stately dome, 

Where Scotia's kings of other years, 
Fam'd heroes, had their royal home ; 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH, lOS 



Alas, how chang'd the times to come ! 

Their royal name low in the dust ! 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam I 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! 

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 

Whose ancestors, in days of yore, 
Thro* hostile ranks and ruined gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 
Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore, 

Haply my sires have left their shed, 
And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar, 

Bold-following where your fathers led ! 

Edina I Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs. 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray' d, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour' d shade. 



EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD 
SCOTTISH BARD. 

Ajpril 1, 1785. 

While briers an* woodbines budding green. 
An' paitricks scraichin' loud at e*en, 
An' morning poussie whiddin' seen. 

Inspire my Muse, 
This freedom, in an unknown frien', 

I pray excuse. 

On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin', 

To ca' the crack and weave our stockin' ; 

And there was muckle fun and jokin', 

Ye need na doubt ; 
At length we had a hearty yokin* 

At sang about. 

There was ae sang amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 

A' to the life. 

I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae weel, 
What gen'rous manly bosoms feel ; 



104 EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK. 

Thought I, * Can this be Pope, or Steele, 
Or Beattie's wark ! ' 

They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel 
About Muirkirk. 

It pat me fidgin'-fain to hear't, 
And sae about him there I spier't ; 
Then a' that ken'd him round declar'd 

He had ingine. 
That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, 

It was sae fine. 

That, set him to a pint of ale. 

An' either douce or merry tale. 

Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himseP, 

Or witty catches, 
'Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, 

He had few matches. 

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, 

Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith, 

Or die a cadger pownie's death, 

At some dyke-back, 
A pint an' gill, I'd gie them baith, 

To hear your crack. 

But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle fell, 

Thro' rude an' rough, 
Yet crooning to a body's sel' 

Does weel eneugh. 

I am nae Poet, in a sense. 

But just a Ehymer, like, by chance. 

An' hae to learning nae pretence, 

Yet, what the matter? 
Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, 

I jingle at her. 

Your critic-folk may cock their nose, 
And say, ' How can you e'er propose, 
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, 

To mak a sang ? ' 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're maybe wrang. 

What's a' your jargon o' your schools. 
Your Latin names for horns an' stools ; 
If honest Nature made you fools. 

What sairs your grammars ? 
Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools, 

Or knappin'-hammers. 



EPISTLE rO JOHN LAPRAIK, 



105 



A set o' dull, conceited hashes, 
Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 

Plain truth to speak ; 
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek ! 

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, 
That's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire 

At pleugh or cart, 
My Muse, though hamely in attire, 

May touch the heart. 

for a spunk o' Allan's glee, 

Or Ferguson's, the bauld an' slee. 
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, 

If I can hit it ! 
That would be lear eneugh for me, 

If I could get it. 

Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few, 
Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist, 
But gif ye want ae friend that's true, 

I'm on your list. 

1 winna blaw about mysel'. 
As ill I like my fauts to tell ; 

But friends, an' folks that wish me well. 
They sometimes roose me ; 

Tho' I maun own, as mony still 
As far abuse me. 

There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me, 
I like the lasses — Gude f orgi 'e me ! 
Por mony a plack they wheedle frae me. 

At dance or fair ; 
Maybe some ither thing they gi'e me 

They weel can spare. 

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there ; 
Wes gie ae night's discharge to care. 

If we forgather. 
An' hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware 

Wi' ane anither. 

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, 
An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water ; 
Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter 

To cheer our heart : 
An' faith we'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 



106 



EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK. 



Awa', ye selfish, warly race, 

Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, 

Ev'n love an' friendship, should give place 

To catch-the-plack ! 
I dinna like to see your face, 

Nor hear your crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, 
Who hold your being on the terms, 

' Each aid the others,' 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms. 

My friends, my brothers ! 

But to conclude my lang epistle. 

As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; 

Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, 

Who am, most fervent, 
While I can either sing or whissle, 

Your friend and servant. 



TO THE SAME. 

AvTil 21, 1785. 

While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake, 
An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik, 
This hour on e'enin's edge I take. 

To own I'm debtor. 
To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik 

For his kind letter. 

Forjesket sair, wi' weary legs, 
Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, 
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs 

Their ten-hours' bite, 
My awkwart Muse sair pleads and begs 

I would na write. 

The tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie. 
She's saft at best, and something lazy. 
Quo' she, ' Ye ken, we've been sae busy, 

This month an' mair, 
That trouth my head is grown right dizzie, 

An' something sair.' 

Her dowff excuses pat me mad ; 

' Conscience,' says I, ' ye thowless jad ! 

I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, 

This very night ; 
So dinna ye affront your trade, 

But rhyme it right. 



EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK. 107 



* Shall bauld Lapraik, the King o' hearts, 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Eoose you sae weel for your deserts, 

In terms sae friendly, 
Yet ye'U neglect to shaw your parts, 

And thank him kindly 1 ' 

Sae I gat paper in a blink, 

An' down gaed stumpie in the ink : 

Quoth I, * Before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close ifc. 
An' if ye winna mak it clink. 

By Jove I'll prose it ! ' 

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 

In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither. 

Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither. 

Let time mak proof ; 
But I shall scribble down some blether 

Just clean aff-loof . 

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, 
Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp ; 
Come, kittle up your moorland harp 

W' gleesome touch ! 
Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp ; 

She's but a bitch. 
She's gi'en me mony a jirt an' fleg, 
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig ; 
But, by the Lord, tho' I should beg 

Wi' lyart pow, 
I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg. 

As lang's I dow ! 
Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer, 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, 
Still persecuted by the limmer 

Frae year to year ; 
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 

I, Kob, am here. 

Do ye envy the city Gent, 

Behind a kist to lie an' sklent, 

Or purse-proud, big wi' cent per cent ; 

An' muckle wame, 
In some bit Brugh to represent 

A Bailie's name? 
Or is't the paughty feudal Thane, 
Wi' ruffled sark an' glancing cane, 
Wha thinks himsel' nae sheep -shank bane, 

But lordly stalks. 
While caps and bonnets aff are ta'en. 

As by he walks ? 



108 EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK. 



' Thou wha gi'es us each guid gift ! 

Gi'e me o' wit an' sense a lift, 

Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, 

Thro' Scotland wide ; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift 

In a' their pride ! ' 
Were this the charter of our state, 

* On pain o' hell, be rich an' great,' 
Damnation then would be our fate. 

Beyond remead ; 
But, thanks to Heaven ! that's no the gate 
We learn our creed ; 

For thus the royal mandate ran. 
When first the human race began, 

* The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan. 

And none but he ! ' 
O mandate glorious and divine ! 
The followers of the ragged Nine, 
Poor, thoughtless devils ! yet may shine 

In glorious light. 
While sordid sons of Mammon's line 

Are dark as night. 

Tho' here they scrape an' squeeze an' growl, 
Their worthless nievefu' of a soul 
May in some future carcase howl, 

The forest's fright ; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 
Then may Lapraik and Burns arise. 
To reach their native, kindred skies. 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys, 

In some mild sphere, 
Still closer knit in frienship's ties 

Each passing year ! 



TO WILLIAM SIMPSON, 

OCHILTREE. 

May, 1785. 

I GAT your letter, winsome Willie ; 
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly. 

An' unco vain. 
Should I believe, my coaxin' billie, 

Your flatterin' strain. 



TO WILLIAM SIMPSON. 109 



But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
I sud be laith to think you hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 

On my poor Musie ; 
The' in sic phraisin terms ye've penn'd 

I scarce excuse ye. 

My senses wad be in a creel, 
Should I but dare a hope to speel, 
Wi* Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield, 

The braes o' Fame ; 
Or Ferguson, the writer-chiel — 

A deathless name. 

Ferguson ! thy glorious parts 
111 suited law's dry, musty arts ! 

My curse upon your whunstane hearts, 
Ye Enbrugh Gentry ! 

The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes 
Wad stow'd his pantry. 

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 
Or lasses gi'e my heart a screed, 
As whiles they're like to be my dead, 
(0 sad disease!) 

1 kittle up my rustic reed ; 

It gi'es me ease. 
Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu' fain, 
She's gotten Poets o' her ain, 
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, 

But tune their lays, 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise. 
Nae Poet thought her worth his while 
To set her name in measur'd style ; 
She lay like some unkenrd-of isle, 

Beside New Holland, 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 

Besouth Magellan. 
Kamsay an' famous Ferguson 
Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrow an' Tweed, to mony a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings, 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, and Doon, 

Naebody sings. 
Th' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, 
Glide sweet in mony a tunefu' line I 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine, 

An' cock your crest. 
We'll gar our streams an' burnies shine 

Up wi' the best. 



110 TO WILLIAM SIMPSON. 



We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, 
Her moors red -brown wi' heather bells, 
Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, 

Where glorious Wallace 
Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 

Frae Southern billies. 

At Wallace' name, what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side, 
Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, 

Or glorious died. 

O, sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, 
When lintwhites chant amang the buds, 
And jinkin hares, in amorous whids. 

Their loves enjoy. 
While thro' the braes the cushat croods 

Wi' wailfu' cry ! 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 
When winds rave thro' the naked tree ; 
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary grey ; 
Or blinding drifts wild furious flee, 

Dark'ning the day ! 

O Nature I a' thy shows an' forms 

To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms 1 

Whether the summer kindly warms 

Wi' life an' light, 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms. 

The lang, dark night 1 

The Muse, nae Poet ever fand her, 
Till by himsel' he learn'd to wander, 
Adown some trottin' burn's meander, 

An' no think lang ; 
O sweet to stray an' pensive ponder 

A heart-felt sang ! 

The warly race may drudge an' drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive, 
Let me fair Nature's face descrive, 

And I, wi' pleasure, 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 

Bum owre their treasure. 

Pareweel, my rhyme-composing brither 1 
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : 
Now let us lay our heads thegither 

In love fraternal : 
May Envy wallop in a tether. 

Black fiend, infernal ! 



TO WILLIAM SIMPSON. Ill 



"While Highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes ; 
While moorlan' herds like guid, fat braxies ; 
While Terra Firma on her axis 

Diurnal turns, 
Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, 

In Eobert Burns. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

My memory's no worth a preen ; 

I had amaist forgotten clean 

You bade me write you what they mean 

By this New -Light, 
'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been 

Maist like to fight. 

In days when mankind were but callans 

At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, 

They took nae pains their speech to balance, 

Or rules to gi'e, 
But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lalans, 

Like you or me. 

In thae auld times they thought the moon 
Just like a sark or pair o' shoon. 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon 

Gaed past their viewin', 
An' shortly after she was done, 

They gat a new one. 

This pass'd for certain, undisputed ; 
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, 
Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it, 

An' ca'd it wrang ; 
An' muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud an' lang. 

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk. 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; 
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk, 

An' out o' sight, 
An' backlins-comin', to the leuk. 

She grew mair bright. 

This was denied, it was affirmed ; 

The herds an' hirssels were alarm'd : 

The rev'rend gray- beards rav'd an' storm'd, 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform'd 

Than their auld daddies. 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 
Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks ; 



112 TO WILLIAM SIMPSON. 



An' mony a fallow gat his licks, 

Wi' hearty crunt ; 
An' some, to learn them for their tricks, 

Were hang'd an' brunt. 

This game was play'd in mony lands, 
An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands, 
That, faith, the youngsters took the sands 

Wi' nimble shanks, 
Till lairds forbad, by strict commands, 

Sic bluidy pranks. 

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe. 
Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an-stowe, 
Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe 

Ye'll find ane plac'd ; 
An' some, their new-light fair avow. 

Just quite barefac'd. 

Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin' ; 
Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin' ; 
Mysel', I've even seen them greetin' 

Wi' girnin' spite, 
To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on 

By word an' write. 

But shortly they will cowe the louns 1 
Some auld-light herds in neebor towns 
Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons. 

To tak a flight, 
An' stay ae month amang the moons 

An' see them right. 

Guid observation they will gi'e them ; 

An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them. 

The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, 

Just i' their pouch, 
An' when the new-light billies see them, 

I think they'll crouch ! 

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter 

Is naething but a ' moonshine matter ' ; 

But tho' dull-prose folk Latin splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope we Bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brulzie. 



EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE, 

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. 

ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Eankine, 
The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin' I 



EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE. lia 



There's mony godly folks are thinkin' 
Your dreams an' tricks 

Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin', 
Straught to auld Nick's. 

Ye hae sae mony cracks an' cants, 
And in your wicked, drucken rants 
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts, 

An' fill them f ou ; 
And then their failings, flaws, an' wants 

Are a' seen thro'. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 
That holy robe, dinna tear it ! 
Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, 

The lads in black ; 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 

Kives't aff their back. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, 
It's just the blue-gown badge and claithing 
0' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them naething 

To ken them by, 
Frae ony unregenerate heathen 

Like you or 1. 

I've sent you here some rhyming ware, 
A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair ; 
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Yon sang ; ye'U sen't, wi' cannie care, 

And no neglect. 

Tho', faith, sma' heart hae I to sing! 
My Muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! 
I've play'd mysel' a bonnie spring, 

An' danc'd my fill ! 
I'd better gaen an' sair't the king 

At Bunker's Hill. 

'Twas ae night lately, in my fun,^ 

I gaed a roving wi' the gun. 

An' brought a paitrick to the grun, 

A bonnie hen. 
And, as the twilight was begun, 

Thought nane wad ken. 

The poor wee thing was little hurt ; 

I straikit it a wee for sport. 

Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me for't ; 

But, Deil-ma-care I 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 

The hale affair. 



114 EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE. 



Some auld, us'd hands had ta'en a note 
That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
I was suspected for the plot ; 

I scorn'd to lie ; 
So gat the whissle o' my groat, 

An' pay't the fee. 

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, 
An' by my pouther an' my hail. 
An' by my hen, an' by her tail, 

I vow an' swear ! 
The game shall pay, o'er moor an' dale, 

For this, neist year. 

As soon's the clockin-time is by. 
An' the wee pouts begun to cry. 
Lord, I'se hae sportin' by an' by, 

For my gowd guinea ; 
Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye 

For't, in Virginia. 

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame I 
'Twas neither broken wing nor limb. 
But twa-three draps about the wame 

Scarce thro' the feathers ; 
An' baith a yellow George to claim. 

An' thole their blethers I 

It pits me aye as mad's a hare ; 

So I can rhyme nor write nae mair ; 

But pennyworths again is fair 

When time's expedient : 
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, 

Your most obedient. 



WRITTEN IN FRIARS' CARSE 

HERMITAGE, 

On Nith-side.— June 28th, 1788. 

FROM THE MS. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed. 
Be thou deckt in silken stole. 
Grave these maxims on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine every hour. 
Fear not clouds will always lour, 
Happiness is but a name, 
Make content and ease thy aim. 



IN FRIARS CARSE HERMITAGE. 115 



Ambition is a meteor gleam, 

Pame, an idle, restless dream : 

Peace, the tenderest flower of spring ; 

Pleasures, insects on the wing ; 

Those that sip the dew alone. 

Make the butterflies thy own ; 

Those that would the bloom devour, 

Crush the locusts, save the flower. 

For the future be prepar'd, 

Guard, wherever thou canst guard ; 

But thy utmost duly done. 

Welcome what thou canst not shun. 

Follies past give thou to air. 

Make their consequence thy care : 

Keep the name of Man in mind, 

And dishonour not thy kind. 

Eeverence, with lowly heart, 

Him whose wondrous work thou art ; 

Keep His goodness still in view. 

Thy Trust, and thy Example too. ^ 

Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy guide ! | 

Quod the Beadsman of Nithe-side. 

EXTENDED COPY. | 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, | 

Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deckt in silken stole. 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most. 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour. 
Fear not clouds will always lour. 

As Youth and Love, with sprightly dance, 
Beneath thy morning star advance. 
Pleasure, with her syren air. 
May delude the thoughtless pair ; 
Let Prudence bless Enjoyment's cup, 
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high. 
Life's meridian flaming nigh. 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale? 
Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale? 
Check thy climbing step, elate, 
Evils lurk in felon wait : 
Dangers, eagle-pinioned, bold. 
Soar around each cliffy hold, 
While cheerful Peace, with linnet song. 
Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beck'ning thee to long repose ; 



116 IN FRIARS' CARSE HERMITAGE. 

As life itself becomes disease, 

Seek the chimney-nook of ease. 

There ruminate, with sober thought, 

On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought; 

And teach the sportive younkers round, 

Saws of experience, sage and sound. 

Say, man's true, genuine estimate. 

The grand criterion of his fate, 

Is not — art thou high or low ? 

Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 

Did many talents gild thy span ? 

Or frugal Nature grudge thee one ? 

Tell them, and press it on their mind, 

As thou thyself must shortly find, 

The smile or frown of awful Heav'n 

To Virtue or to Vice is giv'n. 

Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, 

There solid self-enjoyment lies ; 

That foolish, selfish, faithless ways 

Lead to be wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus resign' d and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
Night, where dawn shall never break, 
Till future life, future no more. 
To light and joy the good restore, 
To light and joy unknown before. 

Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy guide I 
Quod the Beadsman of Nith-side. 



ODE, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF 
MRS. OSWALD. 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark, 
Hangman of creation, mark ! 
Who in widow- weeds appears. 
Laden with unhonour'd years, 
Noosing with care a bursting purse. 
Baited with many a deadly curse I 

STROPHE. 

View the wither' d beldam's face — 

Can thy keen inspection trace 

Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace? 

Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows. 

Pity's flood there never rose. 

See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save. 

Hands that took but never gave. 

Keeper of Mammon's iron chest. 



i 
TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. OSWALD. 117 



Lo, there she goes unpitied and unblest. 

She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest I 

ANTISTROPHE. 
Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 
(A while forbear, ye tot' ring fiends,) 
See'st thou whose step unwilling hither bends? 
No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies ; 
*Tis thy trusty quondam mate, 
Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, 
She, tardy, hell- ward plies. 

EPODE. 
And are they of no more avail. 
Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a year ! 
In other worlds can Mammon fail, 
Omnipotent as he is here ? 
O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, 
While down the wretched vital part is driv'n I 
The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear. 
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n. 



ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHEW 
HENDERSON, 

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS 
HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD. 

But now his radiant course is run. 
For Matthew's course was bright; 

His soul was like the glorious sun, 
A matchless, Heav'nly Light. 

DEA.TH ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 

The meikle devil wi' a woodie 

Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, 

O'er hurcheon hides. 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 

Wi' thy auld sides ! 

He's gane, he's gane ! he's frae us torn, 

The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 

Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn 

By wood and wild, 
Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exil'd. 

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns. 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns. 

Where echo slumbers ! 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing numbers ! 



118 CAPT, MATTHEW HENDERSON. 



Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens I 
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens I 
Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens, 

Wi' toddlin' din, 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae lin to lin. 

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lee ; 
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie 

In scented bow'rs ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree, 

The first o' flow'rs. 
At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at its head. 
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed^ 

I' th' rustling gale. 
Ye maukins, whiddin' thro' the glade, 

Come join my wail. 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ; 

He's gane forever. 
Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals. 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels : 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake : 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Eair for his sake. 
Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day 
'Mang fields o' flow' ring clover gay ; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore 
Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay 

Wham we deplore. 
Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r. 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r. 
What time the moon, wi' silent glowr, 

Sets up her horn. 
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrife morn ! 

rivers, forests, hills, and plains I 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 
But now, what else for me remains 

But tales of woe ; 
And frae my e'en the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 



L 



CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON. 119 



Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year I 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head. 
The gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear, 

For him that's dead 1 

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air 

The roaring blast, 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light ! 
Mourn, empress of the silent night I 
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, 

My Matthew mourn 1 
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight 

Ne'er to return. 

Henderson ! the man ! the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever ? 
And hast thou crost that unknown river ? 

Life's dreary bound ? 
Like thee, where shall I find another, 

The world around ? 

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by the honest turf I'll wait. 

Thou man of worth I 
And weep thee ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth. 

THE EPITAPH. * 

Stop, passenger ! my story's brief, 

And truth I shall relate, man ; 
I tell nae common tale o' grief. 

For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast. 

Yet spurn'd at Fortune's door, man; 

A look of pity hither cast. 

For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art, 

That passest by this grave, man ; 

There moulders here a gallant heart, 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways, 
Canst throw uncommon light, man ; 



120 CAPT, MATTHEW HENDERSON. 



Here lies wha weel had won thy praise, 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 
Wad life itself resign, man ; 

The sympathetic tear maun fa', 
For Matthew was a kind man. 

If thou art staunch, without a stain. 
Like the unchanging blue, man ; 

This was a kinsman o' thy ain, 
For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 
And ne'er guid wine did fear, man ; 

This was thy billie, dam, and sire, 
For Matthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whingin' sot, 

To blame poor Matthew dare, man ; 

May dule and sorrow be his lot. 
For Matthew was a rare man. 



LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS 
ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 

Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree. 
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 

Out-owre the grassy lea : 
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams. 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now laverocks wake the merry morn, 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r, 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
The mavis mild wi' many a note 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall opprest. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank. 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen. 

And milk-white is the slae : 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets amang ; 
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang. 



LAMENT OF QUEEN MARY, 121 

f- 

I was the Queen o' bonnie France, | 

Where happy I hae been, j 

Fu' lightly rose I in the morn, | 

As blythe lay down at e'en ; \ 

And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland, ■ 

And mony a traitor there ; ; 

Yet here I lie in foreign bands, | 

And never-ending care. | 

But as for thee, thou false woman, \ 

My sister and my fae, | 

Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword i 

That thro' thy soul shall gae : I 

The weeping blood in woman's breast | 

Was never known to thee ; j 

Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe j 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. j 

My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine ; I 

And may those pleasures gild thy reign | 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ! | 

God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, j 

Or turn their hearts to thee : ; 

And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend ' 

Remember him for me ! j 

Oh ! soon to me may summer-suns | 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 

Nae mair to me the autumn winds \ 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! j 

And in the narrow house o' death j 

Let winter round me rave ; * 
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring 

Bloom on my peaceful grave 1 



EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. 

When Nature her great master-piece design'd, 
And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind. 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
She form'd of various parts the various man. 
Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry and sober worth : 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, 
And merchandise' whole genus take their birth ; 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, 
And all mechanics' many- apron' d kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet. 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net : 



122 EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ, 



The caput mortuum of gross desires 

Makes a material for mere knights and squires ; 

The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, 

She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, 

Then marks the unyielding mass with grave designs, 

Law, physic, politics, and deep divines : 

Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, 

The flashing elements of female souls. 

The order'd system fair before her stood. 
Nature, well-pleas'd, pronounc'd it very good ; 
But ere she gave creating labour o'er, 
Half -jest, she try'd one curious labour more ; 
Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter. 
Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter ; 
With arch alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may have her whim as well as we. 
Her Hogarth-art, perhaps she meant to show it) 
She forms the thing, and christens it — a Poet. 
Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow. 
When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow. 
A being form'd t' amuse his graver friends, 
Admir'd and prais'd — and there the homage ends : 
A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife. 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live : 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind. 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
And, to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the generous truly great, 
A title, and the only one I claim. 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham. 

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train. 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main ! 
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, 
That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; 
The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard wrung boon. 
The world were blest did bliss on them depend. 
Ah, that ' the friendly e'er should want a friend !' 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun. 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 
(Instinct 's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
Who make poor ' will do ' wait upon * I should ' — 
We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good ? 



EPISTLE TO R, GRAHAM, ESQ, 123 



Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 

God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 

But come ye who the godlike pleasure know, 

Heaven's attribute distinguished — to bestow ! 

Whose arms of love would grasp the human race : 

Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace ; 

Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 

Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 

Why shrinks my soul, half-blushing, half-afraid. 

Backward abash'd to ask thy friendly aid ? 

I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 

I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; 

But there are such who court the tuneful nine — 

Heavens ! should the branded character be mine ! 

Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows, 

Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 

Mark, how their lofty, independent spirit 

Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit ! 

Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; 

Pity the best of words should be but wind ! 

So, to heaven's gate the lark's shrill song ascends, 

But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 

In all the clam'rous cry of starving want. 

They dun benevolence with shameless front ; 

Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays. 

They persecute you all your future days ! 

Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 

My horny fist assume the plough again ; 

The piebald jacket let me patch once more; 

On eighteen-pence a week I've liv'd before. 

Tho', thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift, 

I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift ; 

That, plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height. 

Where, man and nature fairer in her sight. 

My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight. 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, OF FINTRAY, 
ESQ. 

Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg. 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg ; 
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest) : 
Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail ? 
(It soothes poor misery, heark'ning to her tale, 
And hear him curse the light he first survey'd, 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade ? 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 



124 TO R, GRAHAM, ESQ. 



The lion and the bull thy care have found, 

One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground : 

Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 

Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell. — • 

Thy minions, kings defend, control, devour, 

In all th' omnipotence of rule and power. — 

Foxes and statesmen, the subtile wiles ensure ; 

The cit and polecat stink, and are secure. 

Toads with their poison, doctors, with their drug, 

The priest and hedgehog in their robes, are snug. 

Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, 

Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts. 

But Oh ! thou bitter step -mother and hard. 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the Bard I 
A thing unteachable in world's skill, 
And half an idiot too, more helpless still. 
No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun ; 
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, 
And those, alas 1 not Amalthea's horn ; 
No nerves olfact'ry. Mammon's trusty cur, 
Clad in rich Dulness' comfortable fur. 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride, 
He bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side : 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart. 
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics — appall'd I venture on the name, 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame : 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ; 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung, 
By blockheads' daring into madness stung ; 
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear. 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear; 
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd in th' unequal strife, 
The hapless Poet flounders on thro' life. 
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd. 
And fled each Muse that glorious once inspir'd. 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, 
Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page, 
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage 1 

So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceas'd. 
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast; 
By toil and famine worn to skin and bone. 
Lies, senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 

O Dulness ! portion of the truly blest ! 
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 
Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of Fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup. 



TO R, GRAHAM, ESQ, 125 



With sober, selfish ease they sip it up ; 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, 
They only wonder ' some folks ' do not starve. 
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, 
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, 
And just conclude that ' fools are fortune's care.' 
So heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, 
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 

Not so the idle Muses' mad-cap train, 
Not such the workings of their moon -struck brain ; 
In equanimity they never dwell. 
By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted hell. 

I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear! 
Already one stronghold of hope is lost — 
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust ; 
(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, 
And left us darkling in a world of tears :) 
Oh ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r I 
Fintray, my other stay, long bless and spare ! 
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown, 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down I 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path ; 
Give energy to life ; and soothe his latest breath. 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of death I 



LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF 
GLENCAIRN. 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream ; 
Beneath a craigie steep, a Bard, 

Laden with years and meikle pain, 
In loud lament bewail 'd his lord, 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 

He lean'd him to an ancient aik. 

Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years ; 
His locks were bleached white wi' time. 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ; 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp. 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang. 
The winds, lamenting thro' their eaves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 



126 LAMENT FOR GLENCAIRN. 



* Ye scatter' d birds that faintly sing, 

The reliques of the vernal quire 1 
Ye wood that shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the aged year ! 
A few short months, and glad and gay 

Again ye' 11 charm the ear and e'e ; 
But nocht in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

* I am a bending aged tree, 

That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

And my last hold of earth is gaen : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 
But I maun lie before the storm, 

And ithers plant them in my room. 

' I've seen so many changefu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men, 

Alike unknowing and unknown : 
Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd, 

I bare alane my lade o' care, 
For silent, low, on beds of dust 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 

* And last (the sum of a' my griefs I) 

My noble master lies in clay % 
The flow'r amang our barons bold. 

His country's pride, his country's stay: 
In weary being now I pine, 

For a' the life of life is dead. 
And hope has left my aged ken. 

On forward wing for ever fled. 

* Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! 

The voice of woe and wild despair \ 
Awake, resound thy latest lay, 

Then sleep in silence evermair ! 
And thou, my last, best, only friend, 

That fillest an untimely tomb, 
Accept this tribute from the Bard 

Thou brought from Fortune's mirkest gloom. 

* In Poverty's low barren vale. 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round ; 
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye. 

No ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me, like the morning sun 

That melts the fogs in limpid air. 
The friendless Bard, and rustic song. 

Became alike thy fostering care. 



LAMENT FOR GLENCAIRN. 127 



* ! why has worth so short a date ? 

While villains ripen grey with time I 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime? 
Why did I live to see that day ? 

A day to me so full of woe ; 
O ! had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 

* The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been ; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that thou hast done for me ! 



LINES SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITE- 
FORD, OF WHITEFORD, BART., 

WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. ; 

Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, ' 

Who, save thy mind' s reproach , nought earthly f ear'st , 
To thee this votive offering I impart, j 

The tearful tribute of a broken heart. j 

The friend thou valued' st, I, the Patron, lov'd ; | 

His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. 
We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone. 
And tread the dreary path to that dark world un- 
known. 



TAM O^ SHANTER. \ 

A TALE, j 

" <?/ Brownyis and of Bogilisfull is this BuJce." 

— Gawin Douglas. ! 

When chapman billies leave the street, | 

And drouthy neebors neebors meet, j 

As market-days are wearing late. 

An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 

While we sit bousing at the nappy, 

An' getting f ou and unco happy, 

We think na on the lang Scots miles, 

The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, 

That lie between us and our hame, 

Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, I 



128 TAM a SHANTER, 

j Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
{ Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 
I This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanter 

As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses 
! For honest men and bonnie lasses). 
i O Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise 

I As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
I She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was na sober ; 
i That ilka melder, wi' the miller, 
j Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on. 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesy'd that, late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon ; 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthen' d, sage advices, 
The husband frae the wife despises I 
But to our tale : Ae market night 
Tam had got planted unco right. 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats that drank divinely ; 
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy, crony ; 
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither ; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter ; 
And ay the ale was growing better : 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious : 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tam didna mind the storm a whistle. 
Care, mad to see a man sae happy. 
E'en "drown'd himsel' amang the nappy: 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure ; 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! 

But pleasures are like poppies spread. 
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed, 



TAM 0' SHANTER. 129 



Or, like the snow-falls in the river, 

A moment white — then melts for ever ; 

Or like the borealis race, 

That flit ere you can point their place ; 

Or like the rainbow's lovely form 

Evanishing amid the storm. — 

Nae man can tether time or tide ; — 

The hour approaches, Tarn maun ride ; 

That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane. 

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 

And sic a night he taks the road in, 

As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow' d ; 
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow' d : 
That night, a child might understand 
The Deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his grey mare Meg — 
A better never lifted leg — 
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet ; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet : 
Whiles glow' ring round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk -All oway was drawing nigh, 
Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry. — 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare, in the snaw, the chapman smoor'd ; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murder' d bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'. — 
Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll : 
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing. 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. — 

Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquebae, we'll face the devil ! — 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, 
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle. 
I 



130 TAM a SHANTER, 



But Maggie stood right sair astonish 'd, 

Till, by the heel and hand admonish' d. 

She ventur'd forward on the light ; 

And, vow ! Tarn saw an unco sight ! 

Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 

Nae cotillion brent new frae France, 

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 

Put life and mettle in their heels. 

A winnok-bunker in the east, 

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 

A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 

To gi'e them music was his charge : 

He screw' d the pipes and gart them skirl, 

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — 

Coffins stood round like open presses, 

That show'd the dead in their last dresses ; 

And by some devilish cantraip slight 

Each in its cauld hand held a light. 

By which heroic Tam was able 

To note upon the haly table 

A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ; 

A thief, new-cutted frae the rape, 

Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 

Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted ; 

Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 

A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 

A knife, a father's throat had mangled. 

Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 

The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; 

Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu'. 

Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious ; 
The piper loud and louder blew. 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit. 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit. 
And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linket at it in her sark ! 

Now Tam, Tam ! had thae been queans, 
A' plump and strapping in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw- white seventeen hunder linnen ! 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair. 
That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdles 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 
Eigwooddie hags wad spean a foal, 



TAM 0' SHANTER, 131 



Louping and flinging on a crummock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tarn kend what was what f u' brawiie : 
There was a winsome wench and walie, 
That night enHsted in the core 
(Lang after kend on Carrick shore ; 
For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perish' d mony a bonnie boat, 
And shook baith meikle corn and bere, 
And kept the country-side in fear), 
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley ham, 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty. 
It was her best, and she was vauntie. — 
Ah ! little kend thy reverend grannie. 
That sark she ooft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches). 
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! 

But here my muse her wing maun cour : — 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang 
(A souple jade she was, and Strang), 
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd. 
And thought his very e'en enrich'd ; 
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tam tint his reason a' thegither, 
'And roars out ' Weel done, Cutty-sark ! 
And in an instant all was dark : 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke. 
When plundering herds assail their byke ; 
As open pussie's mortal foes. 
When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
As eager runs the market -crowd, 
When ' Catch the thief ! ' resounds aloud ; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi' mony an eldritch skreech and hollow. 

Ah, Tam ! ah, Tam ! thou'll get thy fairin' ! 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin' 1 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' I 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane of the brig : 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they darena cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake ! 



132 TAM O' SHANTER. 



For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest. 
And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle ; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought off her master hale, 
But left behind her ain grey tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed : 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd. 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. 
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, 
Kemember Tarn o' Shanter's mare. 



ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S 

PEREGRINATIONS THRO' 

SCOTLAND, 

COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. 

Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk to John o' Groats : — 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede you tent it : 
A chield's amang you taking notes, 

And, faith, he'll prent it. 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 

Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 

0' stature short, but genius bright. 

That's he, mark weel — 
And wow ! he has an unco slight 

0' cauk and keel. 

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin', 
Or kirk deserted by its riggin', j 
It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi' deils, they say. Lord save's ! colleaguin' 

At some black art. — 

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer, 

Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamour. 

And you, deep-read in hell's black grammar, 

Warlocks and witches, 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 

Ye midnight bitches. 

It's tauld he was a sodger bred. 
And ane wad rather f a'n than fled ; 



CAPT, GROSE'S PEREGRINA TIONS, 133 



But now he's quat the spurtle-blade 
And dog-skin wallet, 

And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, 
I think they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets ; 
Busty airn caps and jingiin' jackets, 
Wad hand the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont gude ; 
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, 

Before the Flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
Auld Tubalcain's fire-stool and fender ; 
That which distinguished the gender 

O' Balaam's ass; 
A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 

Weel shod wi' brass. 

Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg, 

The cut of Adam's philibeg; 

The knife that nicket Abel's craig, 

He'll prove you fully — 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang-kail gullie. — 

But wad ye see him in his glee, 
For meikle glee and fun has he, 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Gude fellows wi' him ; 
And port, O port ! shine thou a wee, 

And then ye'll see him I 

Now, by the Pow'rs o' verse and prose ! 
Thou art a dainty chield, Grose ! — 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose. 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say. Shame fa' thee ! 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE 
LIMP BY ME, 

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. 

April, 1789. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ; 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 



134 ON A WOUNDED HARE. 



Go, live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 

The bitter little that of life remains ; 

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains 
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 
Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, 

No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 

The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless 
fate. 

ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF 
THOMSON, 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGH- 
SHIRE, WITH BAYS. 

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood. 

Unfolds her tender mantle green, 
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood. 

Or tunes Eolian strains between ; 
While Summer with a matron grace 

Ketreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 
Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 

The progress of the spiky blade ; 

While Autumn, benefactor kind. 

By Tweed erects his aged head, 
And sees, with self -approving mind, 

Each creature on his bounty fed ; 
While maniac Winter rages o'er 

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 
Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows ; 

So long, sweet Poet of the year. 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won ; 
While Scotia, with exulting tear, 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



TO MISS CRUICKSHANK, A VERY 
YOUNG LADY. 

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, 
PRESENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 
Blooming in thy early May, 



TO MISS CRUICKSHANK. 135 



Never may'st thou, lovely Flow'r, 
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r 1 
Never Boreas' hoary path, 
Never Eurus' pois'nous breath, 
Never baleful stellar lights, 
Taint thee with untimely blights ! 
Never, never reptile thief 
Eiot on thy virgin leaf ! 
Nor even Sol too fiercely view 
Thy bosom blushing still with dew ! 

May'st thou, long, sweet crimson gem, 
Eichly deck thy native stem ; 
Till some evening, sober, calm, 
Dropping dews, and breathing balm. 
While all around the woodland rings, 
And every bird thy requiem sings ; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound. 
Shed thy dying honours round. 
And resign to parent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. 



ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER, 

THE DEATH OF JOHN MTEOD, ESQ., 

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR 
FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S. 

Sad thy tale, thou idle page. 

And rueful thy alarms ; 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew 

The morning rose may blow ; 
But cold successive noontide blasts 

May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 

The sun propitious smil'd : 
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds 

Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 

Fate oft tears the bosom chords 

That Nature finest strung : 
So Isabella's heart was form'd. 

And so that heart was wrung. 

Dread Omnipotence, alone. 

Can heal the wound He gave ; 
Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes 

To scenes beyond the grave. 



136 DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ, 



Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, 
And fear no withering blast ; 

There Isabella's spotless worth 
Shall happy be at last. 



THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR 

WATER TO THE NOBLE DUKE 

OF ATHOLE. 

My Lord, I know your noble ear 

Woe ne'er assails in vain ; 
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble Slave complain, 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams. 

In flaming summer-pride, 
Dry- withering, waste my foamy streams. 

And drink my crystal tide. 

The lightly -jumping glowrin' trouts, 

That thro' my waters play. 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

They near the margin stray ; 
If hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up so shallow, 
They're left the whitening stanes amang, 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, 

As Poet Burns came by. 
That to a Bard I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry ; 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween. 

Even as I was he shor'd me ; 
But had I in my glory been. 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild-roaring o'er a linn ; 
Enjoying large each spring and well 

As Nature gave them me, 
I am, altho' I say't mysel'. 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 

Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes. 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees 

And bonnie spreading bushes. 



PETITION OF BRUAR WA TER. 137 



Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks, 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock, warbling wild, 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink. Music's gayest child. 

Shall sweetly join the choir: 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, 

The mavis mild and mellow ; 
The robin pensive Autumn cheer, 

In all her locks of yellow : 

This, too, a covert shall ensure 

To shield them from the storm ; 
And coward maukin sleep secure 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat 

To weave his crown of flowers ; 
Or find a sheltering safe retreat 

From prone-descending show'rs. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth. 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty, idle care : 
The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms 

The hour of heav'n to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arms 

To screen the dear embrace. 

Here haply too at vernal dawn 

Some musing bard may stray, 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain grey : 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam 

Mild-chequering thro' the trees. 
Rave to my darkly dashing stream, 

Hoarse- swelling on the breeze. 
Let lofty firs and ashes cool 

My lowly banks o'erspread. 
And view deep-bending in the pool 

Their shadows' wat'ry bed ! 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
And, for the little songster's nest. 

The close embow'ring thorn. 

So may old Scotia's darling hope, 

Your little angel band. 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour' d native land ! 



138 PETITION OF BRUAR WATER. 



So may thro' Albion's farthest ken, 
To social-flowing glasses, 

The grace be ' Athole's honest men, 
And Athole's bonnie lasses I ' 



THE KIRK'S ALARM. 

A SATIRE, 

A Ballad Tune — ' Push about the Brisk Bowl.' 

Orthodox, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience : 

There's a heretic blast has been blawn i' the wast, 
• That what is not sense must be nonsense.' 

Dr. Mac, Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack. 

To strike evil-doers wi' terror ; 
To join faith and sense upon ony pretence 

Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare, 

To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; 
Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief, 

And orator Bob is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's 
like a child. 

And your life like the new driv'n snaw, 
Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye. 

For preaching that three's ane and twa. 

Rumble John, Rumble John, mount the steps wi* 
a groan. 

Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; 
Then lug out your ladle, deal brunstane like adle. 

And roar ev'ry note of the damn'd. 

Simper James, Simper James, leave the fair Killie 
dames. 

There's a holier chase in your view ; 
I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'U soon lead. 

For puppies like you there's but few. 

Singet Sawney, Singet Sawney, are ye herding 
the penny, 

Unconscious what evils await ? 
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul, 

For the foul thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Auld, Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the fauld, 
A tod meikle waur than the Clerk ; 



THE KIRK'S ALARM. 



139 



Tho' ye downa do skaith, ye'll be in at the death, 
And gif ye canna bite ye may bark. 

Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye do 
muster, 

The corps is no nice of recruits : 
Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boast, 

If the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose, ye hae made but toom roose 

In hunting the wicked Lieutenant ; 
But the Doctor's your mark, for the L d's haly ark 

He has cooper'd and caw'd a wrang pin in't. 

Poet Willie, Poet Willie, gi'e the Doctor a volley, 
Wi' your ' liberty's chain ' and your wit : 

O'er Pegassus' side ye ne'er laid a stride. 
Ye but smelt, man, the place whare he sh — t. 

Andro Gouk, Andro Gouk, ye may slander the book, 
And the book no the waur, let me tell ye ! 

Ye are rich and look big, but lay by hat and wig. 
And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value. 

Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, what mean ye? what 
mean ye ? 

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 
Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense 

Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine Side, Irvine Side, wi' your turkeycock pride. 

Of manhood but sma' is your share ! 
Ye've the figure 'tis true, even your faes will allow. 

And your friends they dare grant you nae mair. 

Muirland Jock, Muirland Jock, when the Lord 
makes a rock 

To crush common sense for her sins, 
If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit 

To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy Will, Holy Will, there was wit i' your skull 
When ye pilfer' d the alms o' the poor ! 

The timmer is scant when ye're ta'en for a saunt, 
Who should swing in a rape for an hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your spiritual guns, 

Ammunition you never can need : 
Your hearts are the stuff will be powther enough, 

And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest -skelping turns, 

Why desert ye your auld native shire ? 
Your muse is a gipsy, e'en tho' she were tipsy 
could ca' us nae waur than we are. 



140 ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE. 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE. 

WRITTEN WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS GRIEVOUSLY 
TORMENTED BY THAT DISORDER. 

My curse upon your venora'd stang 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; 
And thro' my lugs gi'es mony a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like racking engines 1 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Bheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes : 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan : 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Aye mocks our groan ! 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! 
I throw the wee stools o'er the meikle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle 

To see me loup : 
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 

0' a' the numerous human dools, 

111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty stools. 

Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see. 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, 

Thou bear'st the gree. 

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell. 
And ranked Plagues their numbers tell 

In dreadfu' raw, 
Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell 

Amang them a' ! 
thou grim mischief-making chiel. 
That gars the notes of discord squeel, 
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick ; — 
Gi'e a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmont's Toothache ! 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL 

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUR 
OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH. 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace. 

These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ; 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL. 141 



0*er many a winding dale and painful steep, 

Th' abodes of covey' d grouse and timid sheep, 

My savage journey, curious, I pursue. 

Till fam'd BreadallDane opens to my view. — 

The meeting cliffs each deep -sunk glen divides ; 

The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides ; 

Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills, 

The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 

The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride ; 

The palace rising on his verdant side ; 

The lawns wool -fringed in Nature's native taste ; 

The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste ; 

The arches striding o'er the newborn stream ; 

The village glittering in the moontide beam — 



Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, 

Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell : 

The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 

Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods — 

Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre. 
And look through Nature with creative fire : 
liere, to the wrongs of Fate half reconcil'd, 
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild : 
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds. 
Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds : 
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch 

her scan. 
And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. 



ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS 
CHILD, 

BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES 
OF FAMILY DISTRESS. 

Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, 

And ward o' mony a prayer, 
What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ? 
November hirples o'er the lea. 

Chill, on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree. 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 
May He who gives the rain to pour. 

And wings the blast to blaw, 
Protect thee frae the driving show'r, 

The bitter frost and snaw. 



142 BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD. 



May He, the friend of woe and want, 
Who heals life's various stounds. 

Protect and guard the mother plant, 
And heal her cruel wounds. 

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast. 

Fair in the summer morn : 
Now feebly bends she in the blast, 

Unshelter'd and forlorn. 
Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 

Unscath'd by ruffian hand ! 
And from thee many a parent stem 

Arise to deck our land. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

STANDING BY THE FALL OF FOYERS, NEAR 
LOCHNESS. 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 
The roaring Foyers pours his mossy floods ; 
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds. 
Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream resounds 
As high in air the bursting torrents flow. 
As deep recoiling surges foam below, 
Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, 
And viewless Echo's ear, astonished, rends. 
Dim-seen, thro' rising mists and ceaseless show'rs, 
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, low'rs. 
Still, thro' the gap the struggling river toils, 
And still, below, the horrid cauldron boils — 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A 
BROTHER POET. 

AULD NEEBOR, 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld-farrant, frien'ly letter ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak sae fair, 
For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter 

Some less maun sair. 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, 
To cheer you through the weary widdle 

O' war'ly cares. 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld gray hairs. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DA VIE, 143 



But Davie, lad, Tm red ye're glaikit; 
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit ; 
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be falkit, 

Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 
Eivin' the words to gar them clink ; 
Whyles daz't wi' love, whyles daz't wi drink, 

Wi' jades or masons ; 
An' whyles, but aye ower late, I think, 

Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commend me to the Bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhymin' clink, 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban. 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' ; 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in. 

An' while ought's there, 
Then hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin', 

An' fash nae mair. 

Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure. 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark, or leisure. 

The Muse, poor hizzie ! 
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, 

She's seldom lazy. 

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie : 
The warl' may play you mony a shavie ; 
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae puir, 
Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie 

Frae door tae door. 



THE INVENTORY, 

IN ANSWER TO THE USUAL MANDATE SENT BY A 
SURVEYOR OF THE TAXES, REQUIRING A RETURN 
OF THE NUMBER OF HORSES, SERVANTS, 
CARRIAGES, ETC., KEPT. 

Sib, as your mandate did request, 
I send you here a faithfu' list 
0' gudes an' gear, an' a' my graith, 
To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith. 



144 THE INVENTORY, 



Imprimis then, for carriage cattle, 
I have four brutes o' gallant mettle 
As ever drew afore a pettle ; 
My han' afore's a gude auld has-been, 
An' wight an' wilfu' a' his days been ; 
My han' ahin's a weel gaun fillie. 
That aft has borne me hame frae Killie 
An' your auld burgh mony a time, 
In days when riding was nae crime — 
But ance whan in my wooing pride 
I, like a blockhead, boost to ride ; 
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to 
(Lord, pardon a' my sins an' that too ! ), 
I play'd my fillie sic a shavie. 
She's a' bedevil'd wi' the spavie. 
My furr-ahin's a wordy beast. 
As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd. 
The fourth's a Highland Donald, hastie, 
A damn'd red-wub Kilburnie blastie, 
Foreby a cowte, o' cowtes the wale, 
As ever ran afore a tail ; 
If he be spar'd to be a beast 
He'll draw me fifteen pun at least. 

Wheel carriages I hae but few. 
Three carts, an' twa are feckly new : 
Ae auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, 
Ae leg an' baith the trams are broken ; 
I made a poker o' the spin'le, 
An' my auld mother brunt the trin'le. 

For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Run de'ils for rantin' an' for noise ; 
A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other — 
Wee Davock bauds the nowte in fother. 
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly, 
An' often labour them completely. 
An' ay on Sundays duly nightly 
I on the questions tairge them tightly ; 
Till faith, wee Davock' s grown sae gleg, 
Tho' scarcely langer than my leg, 
He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 

I've nane in female servan' station 
(Lord, keep me ay frae a' temptation !) 
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is, 
An' ye have laid nae tax on misses ; 
An' then if Kirk folks dinna clutch me, 
I ken the devils darena touch me. 
Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented, 
Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted. 
My sonsie, smirking dear-bought Bess, 



THE INVENTORY. 145 



She stares the daddy in her face, 
Enough of ought ye like but grace. 
But her, my bonnie sweet wee lady, 
I've paid enough for her already. 
An' gin ye tax her or her mither, 
B' the Lord, ye'se get them a' thegither. 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 
Nae kind of license out I'm takin' ; 
Frae this time forth, I do declare, 
I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair; 
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 
My travel a' on foot I'll shank it, 
I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit ! — 
The Kirk an' you may tak' you that, 
It puts but little in your pat ; 
Sae dinna put me in your buke. 
Nor for my ten white shillings luke. 

This list wi* my ain han' I wrote it, 
Day an' date as undernotit : 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscripsi huic, 

EoBERT Burns. 
Mossgiel, 
February 22nd, 1786. 



THE WHISTLE. 

A BALLAD, 

I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, 

I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, 

Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king, 

And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring. 

Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal, 
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall — 
* This Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er, 
And drink them to hell. Sir, or ne'er see me more ! ' 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, 
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell ; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still, 
And blew on the Whistle this requiem shrill. 

Till Eobert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, 
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war. 
He drank his poor godship as deep as the sea — 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Kobert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd, 
Which now in his house has for ages remained ; 

K 



146 



THE WHISTLE. 



Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, 
The jovial contest again have renew'd. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw; 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law ; 
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins ; 
And gallant Sir Eobert, deep-read in old wines. 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil. 
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, 
And once more, in claret, try which was the man. 

* By the gods of the ancients 1 ' Glenriddel replies, 

* Before I surrender so glorious a prize 

I'll conjure the ghost of the great Eory More, 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er.* 

Sir Eobert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, 
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his 

friend. 
Said * Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field,* 
And, knee-deep in claret, he'd die ere he'd yield. 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, 

So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 

But for wine and for welcome not more known to 

fame 
Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely 

dame. 

A bard was selected to witness the fray, 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply. 
And ev'ry n^w cork is a new spring of joy; 
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set. 
And the bands grew the tighter the more they were 
wet. 

Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, 
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn, 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next mom. 

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night. 
When gallant Sir Eobert, to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, 
No longer the warfare ungodly would wage ; 
A high-ruling elder to wallow in wine 1 
He left the foul business to folks less divine. 



THE WHISTLE. 147 



The gallant Sir Eobert fought hard to the end ; 
But who can with Fate and quart bumpers contend ? 
Tho' Fate said, a hero should perish in light, 
So up rose bright Phoebus, and down fell the knight. 

Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink : — 
* Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink! 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, 
Come — one bottle more — and have at the sublime ! 

*Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with 

Bruce, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : 
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ; 
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day ! ' 



SKETCH 

INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. 

How Wisdom and Folly meet, mix, and unite: 
How Virtue and Vice blend their black and their 

white ; 
How Genius, th' illustrious father of fiction, 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction — 
I sing ; if these mortals, the Critics, should bustle, 
I care not, not I — let the Critics go whistle ! 

But now for a Patron, whose name and whose glory 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 

Yet whose parts and acquirements seem just lucky 

hits; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so 

strong, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er could go wrong; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er could go right ; 
A sorry, poor, misbegot son of the Muses 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 
Good Lord, what is man ! for as simple he looks. 
Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks, 
With his depths and his shallows, his good and his 

evil, 
All in all, he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 
On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours, 
That, like th' old Hebrew walking- switch, eats up 

its neighbours ; 
Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would you 

know him ? 



148 



SKETCH. 



Pull the string, Euling Passion, the picture will 

show him. 
What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, 
One trifling particular, Truth, should have miss'd 

him ! 
For, spite of his fine, theoretic positions, 
Mankind is a science defies definitions. 

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, 
And think human -nature they truly describe ; 
Have you found this, or t'other? there's more in 

the wind. 
As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find. 
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan 
In the make of the wonderful creature call'd Man ; 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 
Nor even two different shades of the same. 
Though like as was ever twin-brother to brother 
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. 

But truce with abstraction, and truce with a muse 
Whose rhymes you'll perhaps. Sir, ne'er deign to 

peruse : 
Will you leave your justings, your jars, and your 

quarrels. 
Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laurels ! 
My much-honour'd Patron, believe your poor Poet, 
Your courage much more than your prudence you 

show it. 
In vain with Squire Billy for laurels you struggle ; 
He'll have them by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle ; 
Not cabinets even of kings would conceal 'em. 
He'd up the back-stairs, and by G — he would 

steal 'em. 
Then feats like Squire Billy's you ne'er can achieve 

'em. 
It is not, outdo him — the task is, out-thieve him. 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Ellisland, 21st Oct., 1789, 

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? 
I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie 

Wad bring ye to : 
Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye. 

And then you'll do. 

ThiB ill-thief blaw the Heron south I 
And never drink be near his drouth 1 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 149 



He tauld mysel' by word o' mouth, 
He'd tak' my letter; 

I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth, 
And bade nae better. 

But aiblins honest Master Heron 
Had at the time some dainty fair one 
To ware his Theologic care on, 

And holy study ; 
And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on, 

E'en tried the body. 

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turn'd a ganger — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear 

Ye'll now disdain me 1 
And then my fifty pounds a year 

Will little gain me. 

Ye glaikit, gleesome, dainty damies, 
Wha by Castalian's wimplin' streamies 
Loup, sing, and lave your pretty limbics, 

Ye ken, ye ken. 
That Strang Necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies. 

They maun hae brose and bits o' duddies; 

Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is — 

I needna vaunt. 
But ril sued besoms — thraw saugh woodies. 

Before they want. 

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and air 1 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than mony ithers ; 
But why should ae man better fare, 

And a' men brithers ? 

Come, Firm Eesolve, take thou the van, 
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man ! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair ; 
Wha does the utmost that he can 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 

(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) * 

To make a happy fire-side clime 

To weans and wife. 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 



150 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 



My compliments to sister Beckie, 
And eke the same to honest Lucky ; 
I wat she is a daintie chuckie 

As e'er tread clay ! 
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, 

I'm yours for aye. 

BoBERT Burns. 



PROLOGUE 



SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES, ON 
NEW YEAR'S DAY EVENING. [1790.] 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city 

That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the pity ; 

Tho', by-the-by, abroad why will you roam ? 

Good sense and taste are natives here at home : 

But not for panegyric I appear, 

I come to wish ye all a good new-year I 

Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, 

Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 

The sage, grave Ancient cough'd, and bade me say, 

* You're one year older this important day.' 

If wiser too — he hinted some suggestion, 

But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question ; 

And with a would-be roguish leer and wink, 

He bade me on you press this one word — * Think ! ' 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope and spirit, 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit. 
To you the dotard has a deal to say. 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way ! 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, 
That the first blow is ever half the battle ; 
That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him, 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him ; 
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing. 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, tho' not least, in love, ye youthful fair, 
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! 
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkl'd brow, 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important — Now I 
To crown your happiness he asks your leave. 
And offers bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, 
With grateful pride we own your many favours ; 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



ELEGY ON LA TE MISS BURNET. 151 



ELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, 

OP MONBODDO. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; 
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, 
As that which laid th' accomplish' d Burnet low. 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget ? 

In richest ore the brightest jewel set ! 

In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, 

As by his noblest work the Godhead best is known. 

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves ; 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore, 
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves, 

Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more ! 

Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens ; 

Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd ; 
Ye rugged cliffs o'erhanging dreary glens, 

To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 

Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their worth. 
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ! 

And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth, 
And not a Muse in honest grief bewail ? 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride. 
And virtue's light that beams beyond the spheres: 

But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide. 
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee. 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care ; 

So deck'd with woodbine sweet yon aged tree. 
So, from it ravish' d, leaves it bleak and bare. 



THE FOLLOWING POEM 
WAS WRITTEN TO A GENTLEMAN 

WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED 
TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE. 

Kind Sir, I've read your paper through, 
And, faith, to me 'twas really new 1 
How guess'd ye. Sir, what maist I wanted 1 
This mony a day I've grain' d and gaunted 
To ken what French mischief was brewin' ; 
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin' ; 



152 ON RECEIVING A NEWSPAPER. 

That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, 
If Venus yet had cut his nose off ; 
Or how the coUieshangie works 
Atween the Russians and the Turks ; 
Or if the Swede, before he halt, 
Would play anither Charles the Twalt : 
If Denmark, anybody spak o't ; 
Of Poland, wha had now the tack o't ; 
How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin' ; 
How libbet Italy was singin' : 
If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 
Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss : 
Or how our merry lads at hame. 
In Britain's court kept up the game : 
How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him 1 
Was managing St. Stephen's quorum; 
If sleekit Chatham Will was livin', 
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin', 
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin' : 
How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, 
Or if bare a — s yet were tax'd ; 
The news o* princes, dukes, and earls. 
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls ; 
If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, 
Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails; 
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, 
And no a perfect kintra cooser. — 
A' this and mair I never heard of ; 
And, but for you, I might despair'd of. 
So gratefu', back your news I send you I 
And pray a' guid things may attend you ! 
Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790. 

REMONSTRANCE TO THE GENTLEMAN TO WHOM 
THE FOREGOING POEM WAS ADDRESSED. 

Dear Peter, Dear Peter, 

We poor sons of metre 
Are often negleckit, ye ken ; 

For instance, your sheet, man 

(Though glad I'm to see't, man), 
I get it no ae day in ten. — R. B. 



LINES ON AN INTERVIEW WITH 
LORD DAER. 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third. 



INTERVIEW WITH LORD DAER. 153 



A ne'er to be forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprachled up the brae, 

I dinner'd wi' a Lord. 
I've been at drucken writers' feasts. 
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' reverence be it spoken ; 
I've even join'd the honour'd jorum, 
When mighty Squireships of the quorum 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But wi' a Lord — stand out my shin ; 
A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son, 

Up higher yet, my bonnet ! 
And sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a', 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 
But, for Hogarth's magic pow'r ! 
To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r ! 

And how he star'd and stammer'd, 
When goavan, as if led wi' branks, 
An' stumpin' on his ploughman shanks, 

He in the parlour hammer'd. 

I sidling shelter' d in a nook, 
An' at his lordship steal't a look. 

Like some portentous omen ; 
Except good sense and social glee. 
An' (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state. 

The arrogant assuming ; 
The fient o' pride, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman. 
Then from his lordship I shall learn. 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as weel's another ; 
Nae honest worthy man need care 
To meet with noble, youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 

PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE 
ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT. 

Noi3. 26, 1792. 

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, 
The fate of Empires and the fall of Kings ; 



154 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 



While quacks of State must each produce his plan, 
And even children lisp The Eights of Man ; 
Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, 
The Bights of Woman merit some attention. 

First, in the Sexes' intermix'd connexion, 
One sacred Eight of Woman is Protection — 
The tender flower that lifts its head elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of Fate, 
Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm. 

Our second Eight — but needless here is caution, 
To keep that Eight inviolate' s the fashion. 
Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum. 
There was indeed in far less polish'd days, 
A time when rough rude man had naughty ways : 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot. 
Nay, even thus invade a Lady's quiet ! — 
No'.v, thank our stars ! these Gothic times are fled ; 
Now well-bred men — and you are all well-bred 1 — 
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. 

For Eight the third, our last, our best, our dearest, 
That Eight to fluttering female hearts the nearest, 
Which even the Eights of Kings, in low prostration, 
Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration 1 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life — immortal love. — 
Sighs, tears, smiles, glances, fits, flirtations, airs, 
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares — 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms. 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

But truce with kings, and truce with constitutions. 
With bloody armaments and revolutions ! 
Let Majesty your first attention summon, 
Ah I (^a ira I The Majesty of Woman I 



ADDRESS, 
SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE, 

ON HER BENEFIT-NIGHT, DECEMBER 4, 1795, 
AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES. 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, 
And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, 
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 
'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better ; 
So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies. 
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes ; 



ADDRESS B Y MISS FONTENELLE. 155 

Said nothing like his works was ever printed ; 
And last, my Prologue-business silly hinted. 

* Ma'am, let me tell you,' quoth my man of rhymes, 

* I know your bent — these are no laughing times : 
Can you — but Miss, I own I have my fears — 
Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears ? 
With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, 
Kouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repentance ; 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, 
Waving on high the desolating brand, 

Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land ? ' 

I could no more — askance the creature eyeing. 
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying ? 
I'll laugh, that's poz — nay, more, the world shall 

know it ; 
And so, your servant ! gloomy Master Poet ! 

Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief. 
That Misery's another word for Grief ; 
I also think — so may I be a bride ! 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy 'd. 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, 
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye ; 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 
To make three guineas do the work of five : 
Laugh in Misfortune's face — the beldam witch !^ 
Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich. 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove ; 
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
Measur'st in desperate thought — a rope — thy neck — 
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, 
Peerest to meditate the healing leap : 
Wouldst thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf? 
Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at thyself : 
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder — that's your grand specific. 

To sum up all, be merry, I advise ; 
And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 



VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WITH A PRESENT OF SONGS. 

Here, where the Scottish Muse immortal lives, 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 

Accept the gift ; tho' humble he who gives, 
Eich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among! 



166 



VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY. 



But Peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or Love, ecstatic, wake his seraph song I 

Or Pity's notes, in luxury of tears, 
As modest Want the tale of woe reveals ; 

While conscious Virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven-born Piety her sanction seals I 



POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY. 

Hail, Poesie 1 thou nymph reserv'd ! 

In chase o' thee what crowds hae swerv'd 

Frae common sense, or sunk unnerv'd 

'Mang heaps o' clavers; 
And och ! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd 

'Mid a' thy favours I 

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, 
While loud the trump's heroic clang, 
And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage : 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage ? 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
^schylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives ; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
They're no herd's ballads, Maro's catches; 
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin' patches 

0' heathen tatters ; 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 

That ape their betters. 

In this braw age o' wit and lear, 

Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair 

Blaw sweetly in its native air 

And rural grace ; 
And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian share 

A rival place ? 

Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan — 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! 
Thou needna jouk behint the hallan, 

A chiel sae clever ; 
The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tantallan, 

But thou's for ever 1 



POEM ON" PASTORAL POETRY. 157 



Thou paints auld Nature to the nines 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell ! 

In gowany glens thy burnie strays, 
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns gray, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are Nature's sel' ; 
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 
Nae snap conceits ; but that sweet spell 

O' witchin' love ; 
That charm that can the strongest quell, 

The sternest move. 



WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF 
THE LAST EDITION OF HIS POEMS, 

PRESENTED TO THE LADY WHOM HE HAD OFTEN 
CELEBRATED UNDER THE NAME OP CHLORIS. 

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse. 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing Muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms), 

To join the friendly few. 

Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast, 

Chill came the tempest's lower, 
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 

pid nip a fairer flower). 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, 

Still much is left behind ; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store — 

The comforts of the mind ! 

Thine is the self- approving glow, 

On conscious honour's part ; 
And, dearest gift of heaven below, 

Thine friendship's truest heart. 



158 WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAP. 



The joys refin'd of sense and taste, 
With every muse to rove : 

And doubly were the poet blest, 
These joys could he improve. 



POETICAL ADDRESS TO MR. WILLIAM 
TYTLER, 

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE, 

Eevered defender of beauteous Stuart, 

Of Stuart, a name once respected, 
A name which to love was the mark of a true heart, 

But now 'tis despis'd and neglected. 

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye. 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, 

Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne ; 

My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, 

That name should he scoffingly slight it. 

Still in prayers for King George 1 most heartily join, 
The Queen, and the rest of the gentry. 

Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine ; 
Their title's avow'd by my country. 

But why of this epoch make such a fuss, 

That gave us the Hanover stem ? 
If bringing them over was lucky for us, 

I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them. 

But, loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous ground. 
Who knows how the fashions may alter ? 

The doctrine to-day that is loyalty sound, 
To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 

A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, 

Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades in your eye 

And ushers the long dreary night ; 
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, 

Your course to the latest is bright. 



SKETCH, —NE W- YEAR'S DA K 159 



SKETCH.— NEW-YEAR'S DAY (1790). 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

This day Time winds th' exhausted chain, 
To run the twelvemonth's length again ; 
I see the old, bald-pated fellow, 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
Adjust the unimpaired machine 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir, 
In vain assail him with their prayer ; 
Deaf as my friend he sees them press. 
Nor makes the hour one moment less. 
Will you (the Major's with the hounds. 
The happy tenants share his rounds ; 
Coila's fair Eachel's care to-day. 
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) 
From housewife cares a minute borrow — 
That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow — 
And join with me a moralizing, 
This day's propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesternight deliver ? 

* Another year has gone for ever.' 

And what is this day's strong suggestion ? 

* The passing moment's all we rest on ! ' 
Eest on — for what ? what do we hear ? 
Or why regard the passing year ? 

Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, 
Add to our date one minute more ? 
A few days may, a few years must, 
Eepose us in the silent dust ; 
Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? 
Yes — all such reasonings are amiss ! 
The voice of Nature loudly cries, 
And many a message from the skies. 
That something in us never dies ; 
That on this frail, uncertain state 
Hang matters of eternal weight ; 
That future-life in worlds unknown 
Must take its hue from this alone ; 
Whether as heavenly glory bright. 
Or dark as misery's woful night. 

Since then, my honour'd, first of friends, 
On this poor being all depends. 
Let us th' important Now employ. 
And live as those that never die. 

Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, 
Witness that filial circle round 



160 



SKETCH, ^NEW-YEAR'S DAY. 



(A sight — life's sorrows to repulse ; 
A sight — pale Envy to convulse), 
Others may claim your chief regard ; 
Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



EXTEMPORE, ON MR. WILLIAM 
SMELLIE, 

AUTHOR OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF NATURAL HISTORY 
AND MEMBER OF THE ANTIQUARIAN AND ROYAL 
SOCIETIES OF EDINBURGH. 

To Crochallan came, 
The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same ; 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night ; 
His uncomb'd grizzly locks, wild staring, thatch'd 
A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd. 
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude. 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 



INSCRIPTION FOR AN ALTAR 

TO INDEPENDENCE, AT KERROUGHTRY, SEAT OF 
MR. HERON, WRITTEN IN SUMMER, 1796 

Thou of an independent mind. 

With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd ; 

Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave, 

Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; 

Virtue alone who dost revere. 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear, 

Approach this shrine, and worship here. 



MONODY ON A LADY FAMED FOR 
HER CAPRICE. 

How cold is that bosom which folly once fired. 
How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately 
glisten' d ! 

How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tir'd, 
How dull is that ear which to flattery so listened 1 

If sorrow and anguish their exit await, 

From friendship and dearest affection remov'd ; 

How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate. 

Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unlov'd. 



MONODY ON A LADY, 161 



Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you ; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear : 
But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true, 

And flowers let us cull for Maria's cold bier. 

We'll search thro' the garden for each silly flower, 
We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed ; 

But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 

For none e'er approached her but rued the rash deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay ; 

Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; 
There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey. 
Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from 
his ire. 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect. 

What once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam : 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect, 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 



SONNET, ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT 
RIDDEL, ESQ. OF GLENRIDDEL. 

A'pril^ 1794. 

No more, ye warblers of the wood — no more ! 

Nor pour your descant, grating on my soul ; 

Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, 
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. 

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes ? 

Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend ; 

How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? 
That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where 
Biddel lies. 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe ! 
And soothe the Virtues weeping o'er his bier : 
The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer, 

Is in his * narrow house ' for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joys shall others greet ; 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 



IMPROMPTU, ON MRS. RIDDEUS 
BIRTHDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 1793. 

Old Winter, with his frosty beard, 
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd, 

Ia '. 



162 ON MRS. RIDDEVS BIRTH DA V. 

* What have I done of all the year, 
To bear this hated doom severe ? 
My cheerless suns no pleasure know ; 
Night's horrid car drags, dreary slow; 
My dismal months no joys are crowning, 
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. 
Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, 

To counterbalance all this evil ; 

Give me, and I've no more to say, 

Give me Maria's natal day ! 

That brilliant gift will so enrich me, 

Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me ; 

* 'Tis done ! ' says Jove ; so ends my story, 
And Winter once rejoic'd in glory. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, MISS JESSY 
LEWARS, DUMFRIES, 

WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED HER. 

June 26th, 1796. 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair. 
And with them take the Poet's prayer — 
That fate may in her fairest page. 
With every kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name ; 
With native worth, and spotless fame. 
And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare ; 
All blameless joys on earth we find, 
And all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard. 



VERSES, 

WRITTEN UNDER VIOLENT GRIEF. 

Accept the gift a friend sincere 

Wad on thy worth be pressin' ; 
Kemembrance oft may start a tear, 
But oh 1 that tenderness forbear. 
Though 'twad my sorrows lessen. 

My morning rase sae clear and fair, 

I thought sair storms wad never 
Bedew the scene ; but grief and care 
In wildest fury hae made bare 
My peace, my hope, forever 1 



UNDER VIOLENT GRIEF. 163 

You think I'm glad ; oh, I pay weel 

For a' the joy I borrow, 
In solitude — then, then I feel 
I canna to mysel' conceal 

My deeply-ranklin* sorrow. 

Farewell ! within thy bosom free 

A sigh may whiles awaken ; 
A tear may wet thy laughin' e'e, 
For Scotia's son — ance gay like thee — 

Now hopeless, comfortless, forsaken ! 



EXTEMPORE TO MR. SYME, 

ON REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, AFTER HAVING 
BEEN PROMISED THE FIRST OF COMPANY AND 
THE FIRST OF COOKERY. 

nth Decembery 1791. 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not, 
And cook'ry the first in the nation ; 

Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 
Is proof to all other temptation. 



TO MR. SYME, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. 

0, HAD the malt thy strength of mind, 
Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 

'Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for Syme were fit. 
Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. 



SONNET, 

ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK 
IN JANUARY, WRITTEN 25th JAN., 1793, THE 
BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR. 

Sing on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough; 

Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain ; 

See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, 
At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow. 

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear 
Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart. 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part. 

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 



164 ON HEARING A THRUSH SING. 



I thank thee, Author of this opening day ! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds the orient skies ! 

Eiches denied, thy boon was purer joys. 
What wealth could never give nor take away ! 

Yet come, th,ou child of poverty and care ; 
The mite high Heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee 
111 share. 



POEM, ADDRESSED TO MR. 
MITCHELL, 

COLLECTOR OP EXCISE, DUMFRIES. 

December, 1795. 

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, 
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alack, alack, the meikle Deil 

Wi' a' his witches 
Are at it, skelpin' ! jig and reel. 

In my poor pouches. 

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it, 
That one pound one, I sairly want it : 
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it. 

It wad be kind ; 
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted, 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin' 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hale design. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, 
And by fell death was nearly nicket : 
Grim loon ! he gat me by the fecket, 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket, 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a share o't, 
And by that life, I'm promis'd mair o't, 
My heal and weal I'll tak a care o't 

A tentier way : 
Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o't, 

For ance and aye. 



TO A GENTLEMAN. 165 



SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE 
HAD OFFENDED. 

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way 
The fumes of wine infuriate send ; 

(Not moony madness more astray ;) 
Who but deplores that hapless friend ? 

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part. 

Ah why should I such scenes outlive ? 
Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 

'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



POEM ON LIFE, 

ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTBR, DUMFRIES, 
1796. 

My honour' d Colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the Poet's weal; 
Ah ! now sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill. 

And potion glasses. 

O what a canty warld were it 

Would pain, and care, and sickness spare it ; 

And Fortune favour worth and merit. 

As they deserve : 
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret ; 

Syne wha wad starve ?) 

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, 
And in paste gems and fripp'ry deck her ; 
Oh I flick'ring, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her still. 
Aye wav'ring like the willow wicker, 

'Tween good and ill. 

Then that curs'd carmagnole, auld Satan, 
Watches, like baudrons by a rattan. 
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on 

Wi' felon ire ; 
Syne, whip ! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on, 

He's off like fire. 

Ah Nick I ah Nick ! it isna fair. 
First showing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, 

To put us daft ; 
Syne weave unseen thy spider snare 

0' hell's damn'd waft. 



166 POEM ON LIFE. 

Poor man, the fly aft bizzes by, 

And aft, as chance he comes thee nigh, 

Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi* joy, 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye, 

Thy sicker treasure. 

Soon heels-o'er-gowdie! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep -head on a tangs. 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murd'ring wrestle, 
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 

But lest you think I am uncivil, 

To plague you with this draunting drivel. 

Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

I quat my pen : 
The Lord preserve us frae the Devil I 

Amen I amen ! 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF 
FINTRY, 

ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. 

I CALL no Goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a Bard that feigns. 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns. 
And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
For boons recorded, goodness ever new. 
The gift still dearer, as the giver you. 
Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night. 
If aught that giver from my mind efface. 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace. 
Then roll to me, along your wand'ring spheres, 
Only to number out a villain's years I 



K 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest. 
As e'er God with his image blest : 
The friend of man, the friend of truth ; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth : 
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, 
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd : 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



VERSES WRITTEN AT SELKIRK, 167 



VERSES WRITTEN AT SELKIRK, 

ADDRESSED TO MR. CREECH, 13th MAY, 1787. 

AuLD chuckle Eeekie's sair distrest, 
Doon draps her ance weel burnish't crest, 
Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest 

Can yield ava ; 
Her darling bird that she lo'es best, 

Willie's awa' ! 

Willie was a witty wight, 
And had o' things an unco sight ; 
Auld Eeekie ay he keepit tight, 

An' trig an' braw : 
But now they'll busk her like a fright, 
Willie's awa' ! 

The stiff est o' them a' he bow'd ; 
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd ; 
They durst na mair than he allow' d. 

That was a law ; 
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd, 

Willie's awa' ! 

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools, 
Frae colleges and boarding-schools. 
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools 

In glen or shaw ; 
He wha could brush them down to mools, 

Willie's awa' ! 

The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer 
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour ; 
He was a dictionar and grammar 
Amang them a' ; 

1 fear they'll now mak mony a stammer, 

Willie's awa' ! 

Nae mair we see his levee door 
Philosophers and Poets pour. 
And toothy critics by the score. 

In bloody raw, 
The adjutant o' a' the core, 

Willie's awa' ! 

Now worthy Gregory's Latin face, 
Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace, 
Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace, 

As Eome ne'er saw ; 
They a' maun meet some ither place, 

Willie's awa' I 



168 VERSES WRITTEN AT SELKIRK. 



Poor Burns e'en Scotch drink canna quicken, 
He cheeps like some bewilder' d chicken 
Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin 

By hoodie-craw ; 
Grief's gi'en his heart an unco kickin', 

Willie's awa' ! 
Now ev'ry sour-mou'd grinnin, blellum, 
And Calvin's folk, are fit to fell him; 
And self-conceited critic skellum 

His quill may draw ; 
He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, 

Willie's awa' ! 
Up wimplin' stately Tweed I've sped, 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks now roaring red. 

While tempests blaw ; 
But every joy and pleasure's fled, 

Willie's awa' ! 
May I be Slander's common speech ; 
A text for infamy to preach ; 
And lastly, streekit out to bleach 

In winter snaw ; 
When I forget thee, Willie Creech, 

Tho' far awa' ! 
May never wicked Fortune toozle him I 
May never wicked men bamboozle him ! 
Until a pow as auld's Methusalem 

He canty claw ! 
Then to the blessed New Jerusalem 

Fleet wing awa' ! 



INSCRIPTION ON TPIE TOMBSTONE 

ERECTED BY BURNS TO THE MEMORY OP 
FERGUSSON. 

** Here lies Eobert Fergusson, Poet, 
Born September 5th, 1751 — 
Died 16th October, 1774." 

No sculp tur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, 

* No storied urn nor animated bust ; ' 
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 

To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust. 

She mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy hapless fate ; 

Tho' all the powers of song thy fancy fir'd, 
Yet Luxury and Wealth lay by in state, 

And thankless starv'd what they so much admired. 



INSCRIPTION ON TOMBSTONE. 169 



This humble tribute with a tear he gives 
A brother Bard, he can no more bestow : 

But dear to fame thy Song immortal lives, 
A nobler monument than Art can show. 



A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 

O THOU, who kindly dost provide 

For every creature's want ! 
We bless Thee, God of Nature wide, 

For all thy goodness lent : 
And, if it please Thee, Heavenly Guide, 

May never worse be sent ; 
But whether granted or denied, 

Lord, bless us with content I 

Amen ! 



A VERSE 

COMPOSED AND REPEATED BY BURNS TO THE 
MASTER OF THE HOUSE, ON TAKING LEAVE AT 
A PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS WHERE HE HAD 
BEEN HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED. 

When Death's dark stream I ferry o'er — 

A time that surely shall come — 
In Heaven itself I'll ask no more 

Than just a Highland welcome. 



LIBERTY. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song, 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
Where is that soul of Freedom fled ? 
Immingled with the mighty dead I 

Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace lies I 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death I 

Ye babbling winds in silence sweep ; 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, 
Nor give the coward secret breath. 

Is this the power in Freedom's war 
That wont to bid the battle rage? 
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, 



170 



LIBERTY. 



Crushing the despot's proudest bearing, 
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate, 

Brav'd usurpation's boldest daring ! 
One quench' d in darkness like the sinking star, 
And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age. 



FRAGMENT OF AN ODE 

TO THE MEMORY OF PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD 
STUART. 

False flatterer, Hope, away ! 
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore ; 

We solemnize this sorrowing natal-day 
To prove our loyal truth ; we can no more ; 

Aiid owning Heaven's mysterious sway. 
Submissive low adore. 

Ye honour'd mighty dead ! 
Who nobly perish' d in the glorious cause, 
Your king, your country, and her laws ! 

From great Dundee, who smiling victory led, 
And fell a martyr in her arms 
(What breast of northern ice but warms !) 

To bold Balmerino's undying name. 
Whose soul of fire, lighted at heaven's high flame, 
Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim. 

Nor unavenged your fate shall be, 

It only lags the fatal hour ; 
Your blood shall with incessant cry 

Awake at last th' unsparing power ; 
As from the cliff, with thundering course, 

The snowy ruin smokes along. 

With doubling speed and gathering force, 
Till deep it crashing 'whelms the cottage in the vale ! 



So vengeance 



ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT 
RUISSEAUX. 

Now Robin lies in his last lair, 

He'll gabble rhyme nor sing nae mair ; 

Cauld poverty, 'wi' hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him : 
Nor anxious fear, nor canker't care. 

E'er mair come near him. 



DEA TH OF ROBERT RUISSEA UX. 171 

To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him, 
Except the moment that they crush't him ; 
For sune as chance or fate had hush't 'em, 

Tho' e'er sae short, 
Then wi' a rhyme or sang he lash't 'em. 

And thought it sport. 

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark. 

And counted was baith wight and stark. 

Yet that was never Eobin's mark 

To mak a man ; 
But tell him he was learn' d and clerk. 

Ye roos'd him then ! 



ANSWER TO VERSES ADDRESSED 
TO THE POET 

BY THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE 
HOUSE. 1787. 

GUIDWIFE, 

I mind it weel, in early date, 

When I was beardless, young, and blate, 

An' first could thresh the barn. 
Or haud a yokin' at the pleugh, 
An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugh. 

Yet unco proud to learn : 
When first amang the yellow corn 

A man I reckon'd was, 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass, 
Still shearing, and clearing 

The tither stocked raw, 
Wi' claivers, an' haivers. 
Wearing the day awa : 

Ev'n then a wish (I mind its power), 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast ; 
That I, for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
Some usefu' plan or beuk could make, 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough bur- thistle, spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bere, 
I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, 
An' spar'd the symbol dear : 
No nation, no station. 

My envy e'er could raise ; 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 



172 



f-^-: 



ANSWER TO VERSES. 



But still the elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, right an' wrang, 

Wild floated in my brain ; 
Till on that har'st I said before, 
My partner in the merry core. 

She rous'd the forming strain : 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 

That lighted up my jingle. 
Her witching smile, her pawky een. 
That gart my heart-strings tingle ; 
I fired, inspired, 

At ev'ry kindling keek, 
But bashing, and dashing, 
I feared aye to speak. 

Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, 
Wi' merry dance in winter days, 

An' we to share in common : 
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe, 
The saul o' life, the heav'n below, 

Is rapture -giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs who hate the name. 

Be mindf u' o' your mither : 
She, honest woman, may think shame 
That ye're connected with her. 
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men. 
That slight the lovely dears ; 
To shame ye, disclaim ye. 
Ilk honest birkie swears. 
For you, no bred to barn or byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 

Thanks to you for your line : 
The marled plaid ye kindly spare, 
By me should gratefully be ware ; 

'Twad please me to the nine. 
I'd be more vauntie o' my hap, 

Douce hingin' owre my curple, 
Than ony ermine ever lap, 
Or proud imperial purple. 
Farewell then, lang heal then, 

An' plenty be your fa' : ^ 
May losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca'. 
Mo.rch, 1787. 



TO J. LAPRAIK. 

September 13<^, 1785. 

GuiD speed an' furder to you, Johnny, 

Guid health, hale ban's, and weather bonnie ; 



TO J. LAPRAIK. 173 



NowVhen ye're nickan down fu' canny 
The staff o' bread, 

May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y 
To clear your head. 

May Boreas never thresh your rigs, 
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' hags 

Like drivin' wrack ; 
But may the tapmast grain that wags 

Come to the sack. 

I'm busy too, an' skelpin' at it, 

But bitter, daudin' showers hae wat it, 

Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it 

Wi' muckle wark, 
An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it. 

Like ony clerk. 

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, 
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, 
Abusin' me for harsh ill-nature 

On holy men. 
While deil a hair yoursel' ye're better, 

But mair profane. 

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, 
Let's sing about our noble sels ; 
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 

To help, or roose us. 
But browster wives an' whisky stills, 

They are the Muses. 

Your friendship. Sir, I winna quat it. 

An' if ye make objections at it, 

Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it. 

An' witness take, 
An' when wi' usquebae we've wat it 

It winna break. 

But if the beast and branks be spar'd 
Till kye be gaun without the herd. 
An' a' the vittel in the yard, 

An' theekit right, 
I mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ae winter night. 

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitae 

Shall make us baith sae blithe an' witty 

Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty, 

An' be as canty 
As ye were nine years less than thretty, 

Sweet ane an' twenty ! 



174 TO J. LAPRAIK. 

But stocks are cowpet wi' the blast, • 
An' now the sun keeks in the west, 
Then I maun rin amang the rest 

An' quit my chanter ; 
Sae I subscribe mysel' in haste, 

Yours, Eab the Ranter. 



THE TWA HERDS (APRIL, 1785). 

'* Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor ^ 
But Fool with Fool is barbarous civil war." 

Pope. 

O a' ye pious godly flocks 
Weel fed on pastures orthodox, 
Wha now will keep you frae the fox, 

Or worrying tykes ? 
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, 

About the dykes ? 

The twa best herds in a' the wast. 
That e'er gae gospel horn a blast, 
These five-and-twenty summers past, 

O dool to tell ! 
Hae had a bitter, black out-cast 

Atween themsel'. 

0, Moodie, man, and wordy Russel, 
How could you raise so vile a bustle ? 
Ye'll see how new-light herds will whistle, 

And think it fine ! 
The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle 

Sin' I hae min'. 

O, Sirs, whae'er wad had expeckit. 

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, 

Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit, 

To wear the plaid, 
But by the brutes themselves eleckit 

To be their guide. 

What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank, 
Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poison' d, soor Arminian's tank 

He let them taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, they drank : 

0' sic a feast ! 

The thummart wil'-cat, brock, and tod, 
Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood, 



THE TWA HERDS. 175 

He smell* d their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in, 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, 

And sell their skin. 

What herd like Eussel tell'd his tale, 
His voice was heard thro' muir and dale ; 
He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, 

O'er a' the height, 
And saw gin they were sick or hale 

At the first sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub. 

Or nobly fling the gospel club. 

And new-light herds could nicely drub. 

Or pay their skin, 
Could shake them owre the burning dub, 

Or heave them in. 

Sic twa — ! do I live to see't, 
Sic famous twa should disagreet. 
An' names like * villain,' ' hypocrite,' 

Ilk ither gi'en, 
While new-light herds, wi' laughin' spite, 

Say ' neither' s liein' ' I 

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, 
There's Duncan deep, and Peebles shaul, 
But chiefly thou, apostle Auld, 

We trust in thee. 
That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld. 

Till they agree. 

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset. 
There's scarce a new herd that we get 
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set 

I winna name, 
I hope frae heaven to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

Dalrymple has been lang our fae, 
M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae. 
And that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhae, 

And baith the Shaws, 
That aft hae made us black and blae 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 

Auld Wodrow lang has hatch' d mischief — 
We thought aye death wad bring relief — 
But he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chiel wha' 11 soundly buff our beef ; 

I meikle dread him. 



176 THE TWA HERDS. 



And mony a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forby turncoats amang oursel' ; 

There's Smith for ane, 
I doubt he's but a grey nick quill, 

And that ye'll fin'. 

O ! a' ye flocks, owre a' the hills, 
By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, 
Come join your counsels and your skills 

To cowe the lairds, 
And get the brutes the power themsels 

To choose their herds. 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance. 
And Learning, in a woody dance. 
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair. 
Be banish'd owre the seas to France; 

Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw's and D'rymple's eloquence, 
M' Gill's close nervous excellence, 
M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense. 

And guid M'Math, 
Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance, 

May a' pack aff. 



TO THE REV. JOHN M^MATH, 

ENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER, 
WHICH HE HAD REQUESTED. 

SevU 17th, 1785. 

While at the stook the shearers cow'r 
To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, 
Or in gulravage rinnin' scour 

To pass the time, 
To you I dedicate the hour 

Li idle rhyme. 

My Musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet 

On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet. 

Is grown right eerie now she's done it. 

Lest they should blame her. 
An' rouse their holy thunder on it. 

And anathem her. 

I own 'twas rash, and rather hardy, 
That I, a simple countra bardie, 



TO THE RE K JOHN M'MA TH, 177 



Shou'd meddle wi' a pack so sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken me, 

Can easy wi' a single wordy 

Lowse hell upon me. 

But I gae mad at their grimaces, 

Their sighin', cantin', grace-proud faces, 

Their three-mile prayers, and half-mile graces, 

Their raxin' conscience, 
Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces 

"Waur nor their nonsense. 

There's Gaun misca'd waur than a beast, 
Wha has mair honour in his breast 
Than mony scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae abus'd him : 
An' may a bard no crack his jest 

What way they've us'd him? 

See him, the poor man's friend in need. 
The gentleman in word an' deed, 
An' shall his fame an' honour bleed 

By worthless skellums 
An' no a Muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums ? 

Pope, had I thy satire's darts 
To gi'e the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, 

An' tell aloud 
Their jinglin' hocus-pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd. 

God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be, 
Nor am I even the thing I could be. 
But, twenty times, I rather would be 

An atheist clean 
Than under gospel colours hid be, 

Just for a screen. 

An honest man may like a glass. 
An honest man may like a lass, 
But mean revenge, an' malice fause, 

He'll still disdain, 
An' then cry zeal for gospel laws, 

Like some we ken. 

They tak religion in their mouth ; 
They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth — 
For what? To gi'e their malice skouth 

On some puir wight. 
An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth, 

To ruin straight. 



178 TO THE RE V. JOHN M'MA TH. 



All hail, Eeligion ! maid divine ! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, 
Who in her rough, imperfect line 

Thus daurs to name thee : 
To stigmatize false friends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee. 

Tho' blotch' d an' foul, wi' mony a stain, 

An' far unworthy of thy train, 

Wi' trembling voice I tune my strain 

To join wi' those 
Who boldly daur thy cause maintain 

In spite o' foes ; 

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, 
In spite of undermining jobs, 
In spite o' dark banditti stabs 

At worth an' merit, 
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, 

But hellish spirit. 

O Ayr ! my dear, my native ground ! 
Within thy presbyterial bound 
A candid lib'ral band is found 
Of public teachers. 
As men, as Christians too, renown'd, 
An' manly preachers. 

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd; 
Sir, in that circle you are f am'd ; 
An' some by whom your doctrine's blam'd 

(Which gi'es you honour), 
Even, Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd. 

An' winning manner. 

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, 
An' if impertinent I've been, 
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane 

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye, 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 



HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. 

O Thou, wha in the Heavens dost dwell, 
Wha, as it pleases best thysel'. 
Sends ane to heaven and ten to hell, 

A' for thy glory, 
And no for ony guid or ill 

They've done afore thee! 



HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER, 179 



I bless and praise thy matchless might, 
When thousands thou hast left in night, 
That I am here afore thy sight, 

For gifts an' grace, 
A burnin' an' a shinin' light 

To a' this place. 

What was I, or my generation. 
That I should get sic exaltation ? 
I, wha deserve sic just damnation 

For broken laws, 
Five thousand years 'fore my creation, 

Thro' Adam's cause. 

When frae my mither's womb I fell. 
Thou might hae plunged me in hell. 
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail 

In burnin' lake, 
Where damned devils roar an' yell, 

Chain' d to a stake. 

Yet I am here a chosen sample, 

To show thy grace is great and ample ; 

I'm here a pillar in thy temple, 

Strong as a rock ; 
A guide, a buckler, an example 

To a' thy flock. 

Lord, thou kens what zeal I bear, 
When drinkers drink and swearers swear, 
And singin' there and dancin' here, 

Wi' great an' sma' : 
For I am keepit by thy fear 

Free frae them a'. 
But yet, Lord ! confess I must, 
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshy lust, 
An' sometimes too, wi' warldly trust. 

Vile self gets in ; 
But thou remembers we are dust, 

Defil'd in sin. 
Lord ! yestreen, thou kens, wi' Meg — 
Thy pardon I sincerely beg — 
! may't ne'er be a livin' plague 

To my dishonour, 
An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg 

Again upon her. 
Besides I farther maun allow 
Wi' Lizzie's lass three times I trow; 
But, Lord, that Friday I was fou 

When I came near her, 
Or else thou kens thy servant true 

Wad ne'er hae steer 'd her. 



180 HOLY WILLIE'S PR A YER. 



Maybe thou lets this fleshy thorn 
Beset thy servant e'en and morn, 
Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 

'Cause he's sae gifted ; 
If sae, thy hand maun e'en be borne 

Until thou Hft it. 

Lord, bless thy chosen in this place, 
For here thou hast a chosen race ; 
But God confound their stubborn face, 

And blast their name, 
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace 

An' public shame. 

Lord, mind Gaun Hamilton's deserts. 
He drinks, an' swears, and plays at cartes, 
Yet has sae mony takin' arts 

Wi' great an' sma', 
Frae God's ain priest the people's hearts 

He steals awa'. 
An' whan we chasten' d him therefor, 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, 
As set the warld in a roar 

0' laughin' at us ; 
Curse thou his basket and his store. 

Kail and potatoes. 
Lord, hear my earnest cry an' pray'r 
Against that presbyt'ry o' Ayr ; 
Thy strong right hand. Lord, make it bare 

Upo' their heads ; 
Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare, 

For their misdeeds. 

Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aiken, 

My very heart and soul are quakin', 

To think how we stood sweatin', shakin'. 

An' p d wi' dread, 

While he wi' hingin' lips an' snakin' 

Held up his head. 
Lord, in the day of vengeance try him ; 
Lord, visit them wha did employ him, 
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em, 

Nor hear their pray'r : 
But, for thy people's sake, destroy 'em, 

And dinna spare. 

But, Lord, remember me and mine 
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, 
That I for gear and grace may shine, 

Excell'd by nane ; 
An' a' the glory shall be thine, 

Amen, Amen. 



EPITAPH ON HOL Y WILLIE. 181 



EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE. 

Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay 

Taks up its last abode ; 
His saul has ta'en some other way — 

I fear the left-hand road. 

Stop 1 there he is, as sure's a gun, 

Poor silly body, see him ; 
Nae wonder he's as black's the grun, 

Observe wha's standing wi' him. 

Your brunstane devilship, I see. 
Has got him there before ye ; 

But hand your nine -tail cat a- wee. 
Till ance you've heard my story. 

Your pity I will not implore. 

For pity ye have nane ; 
Justice, alas ! has gi'en him o'er, 

And Mercy's day is gane. 

But hear me. Sir, deil as ye are, 
Look something to your credit ; 

A coof like him wad stain your name, 
If it were kent ye did it. 



ON SCARING SOME WATER FOWL 

IN LOCH TURRET, A WILD SCENE AMONG 
THE HILLS OF OCHTERTYRB. 

Why, ye tenants of the lake. 
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake ? 
Tell me, fellow- creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly ? 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties ? — 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, 
Busy feed, or wanton lave ; 
Or, beneath the sheltering rock, 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race. 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
Man, your proud, usurping foe, 
Would be lord of all below ; 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride. 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 



182 ON SCARING SOME WATER FOWL. 



The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below, 
In his breast no pity dwells — 
Strong Necessity compels. 
But Man, to whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n, 
Glories in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slain. 

In these savage, liquid plains, 
Only known to wand'ring swains, 
Where the mossy riv'let strays. 
Far from human haunts and ways : 
All on Nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man's superior might 
Dare invade your native right, 
On the lofty ether born, 
Man, with all his pow'rs, you scorn ; 
Swiftly seek on clanging wings 
Other lakes and other springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., 
MAUCHLINE, 

RECOMMENDING A BOY. 

Mosgaville, May 3, 1786. 

I HOLD it, Sir, my bounden duty 

To warn you how that Master Tootie, 

Alias Laird M'Gaun, 
Was here to lure the lad away 
'Bout whom ye spak the ither day. 

An' wad hae don 't aff han' : 
But lest he learn the callan tricks. 

As faith I muckle doubt him, 
Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks, 

An' tellin' lies about them ; 
As lieve then I'd have then, 

Your clerkship he should sair, 
If sae be, ye may be 
Not fitted otherwhere. 
Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough. 
An' 'bout a house that's rude an' rough 

The boy might learn to swear ; 
But then, wi' you, he'll be sae taught, 
And get sic fair example straught, 

I hae na ony fear. 



TO GA VI N HAMILTON, 18a 



Ye'U catechize him every quirk, 

An' shore him weel wi' hell, 
An' gar him follow to the kirk — 
Ay when ye gang yersel'. 
If ye, then, maun be then 

Frae hame this comin' Friday, 
Then please, Sir, to lea'e, Sir, 
The orders wi' your lady. 

My word of honour I hae gi'en, 

In Paisley John's that night at e'en 

To meet the warld's worm : 
To try to get the twa to gree, 
An' name the airles an' the fee 

In legal mode an' form : 
I ken he weel a snick can draw, 
When simple bodies let him : 
An' if a Devil be at a', 

In faith he's sure to get him. 
To phrase you an' praise you, 

Ye ken your Laureate scorns : 
The pray'r still you share still 
Of grateful Minstrel 

BUBNS. 



EPISTLE TO MR. M*ADAM, 

OP CRAIGBN-GILLAN, IN ANSWER TO AN OBLIGING 
LETTER HE SENT IN THE COMMENCEMENT OP 
MY POETIC CAREER. 

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, 

I trow it made me proud ; 
* See wha taks notice o' the Bard ! 

I lap and cry'd fu' loud. 

•Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, 

The senseless gawky million : 
I'll cock my nose aboon them a' — 

I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan! ' 

*Twas noble. Sir ; 'twas like yourseP, 
To grant your high protection : 

A great man's smile, ye ken fu' weel, 
Is aye a blest infection. 

Tho', by his banes wha in a tub 

Match'd Macedonian Sandy ! 
On my ain legs, thro' dirt and dub, 

I independent stand ay. 



184 EPISTLE TO MR, M'ADAM. 



And when those legs to gude warm kail 
Wi' welcome canna bear me, 

A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, 
And barley- scone shall cheer me. 

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath 

0' mony flow'ry simmers ! 
And bless your bonnie lassies baith, 

I'm tald they're loosome kimmers. 

And God bless young Dunaskin's laird, 

The blossom of our gentry ! 
And may he wear an auld man's beard, 

A credit to his country. 



TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, GLENRIDDEL. 

EXTEMPORE LINES ON RETURNING A 
NEWSPAPER. 

EUisland, Monday Evening. 

Your News and Review, Sir, I've read through 
and through, Sir, 

With little admiring or blaming ; 
The papers are barren of home news or foreign — 

No murders or rapes worth the naming. 

Our friends the Reviewers, those chippers and hewers, 

Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir ; 
But of meet, or unmeet, in a fabric complete, 

I'll boldly pronounce they are none. Sir. 

My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your goodness 

Bestow' d on your servant, the Poet ; 
Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun, 

And then all the world, Sir, should know it I 



VERSES 

INTENDED TO BE WRITTEN BELOW A NOBLE 
EARL'S PICTURE. 

Whose is that noble, dauntless brow ? 

And whose that eye o' fire ? 
And whose that generous princely mien 

Even rooted foes admire ? 

Stranger, to justly show that brow, 

And mark that eye of fire. 
Would take His hand whose vernal tints 

His other works admire. 



TO MR, MAXWELL, 185 



Bright as a cloudless summer sun, 
With stately port he moves : 

His guardian seraph eyes with awe 
The noble ward he loves. 

Among the illustrious Scottish sons 
That chief thou may'st discern ; 

Mark Scotia's fond returning eye, 
It dwells upon Glencairn. 



TO MR. MAXWELL OF TERRAUGHTY, 
ON HIS BIRTHDAY. 

Health to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief ! 
Health, aye unsour'd by care or grief ; 
Inspir'd, I turn Fate's sibyl leaf 

This natal morn, 
I see thy life is stuff o' prief , 

Scarce quite half worn. 

This day thou meets threescore eleven, 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 
(The second-sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka Poet) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it. 

If envious buckles view wi' sorrrow 

Thy lengthen' d days on this blest morrow. 

May Desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow, 

Nine miles an hour, 
Eake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, 

In brunstane stoure. 

But for thy friends, and they are mony, 
Baith honest men and lassies bonnie, 
May couthie Fortune, kind and cannie. 

In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny 

Bless them and thee ! 

Fareweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye, 
And then the Deil he daurna steer ye ; 
Your friends aye love, your f aes aye fear ye ; 

For me, shame fa' me 
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye 

While Burns they ca' me. 



186 TO CLARINDA. 



TO CLARINDA, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIR OP 
DRINKING GLASSES. 

Fair Empress of the Poet's soul, 

And Queen of Poetesses ; 
Clarinda, take this little boon, 

This humble pair of glasses. 

And fill them high with generous juice, 

As generous as your mind ; 
And pledge me in the generous toast — 

* The whole of human kind 1 ' 

* To those who love us ! ' — second fill : 
But not to those whom we love ; 

Lest we love those who love not us ! 
A third — * to thee and me, Love I * 



THE VOWELS. 

A TALE. 

'TwAS where the birch and sounding thong are ply*d, 

The noisy domicile of pedant pride ; 

Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws, 

And cruelty directs the thickening blows ; 

Upon a time, Sir Abece the great, 

In all his pedagogic powers elate. 

His awful chair of state resolves to mount, 

And call the trembling Vowels to account. 

First entered A, a grave, broad, solemn wight. 
But ah ! deform'd, dishonest to the sight ! 
His twisted head look'd backward on his way. 
And, flagrant from the scourge, he grunted, ail 

Eeluctant, E stalk'd in ; with piteous race 
The jostling tears ran down his honest face ! 
That name, that well-worn name, and all his own. 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ! 
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound 
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound ; 
And next, the title following close behind, 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assigned. 

The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y ! 
In sullen vengeance, I disdain' d reply: 
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round. 
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground ! 

In rueful apprehension enter' d 0, 
The wailing minstrel of despairing woe : 



THE VOWELS, 187 



Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert 
Might there have learn't new mysteries of his art : 
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, 
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew I 

As trembling U stood staring all aghast, 
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast. 
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, 
Baptiz'd him ew, and kicked him from his sight. 



SKETCH. 

[WILLIAM CREECH.] 

A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight. 
And still his precious self his dear delight ; 
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets 
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets : 
A man of fashion, too, he made his tour, 
Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive I'amour ; 
So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve, 
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love. 
Much specious lore, but little understood ; 
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood ; 
His solid sense, by inches you must tell, 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell ; 
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend. 
Still making work his selfish craft must mend. 



PROLOGUE 

FOR MR. SUTHERLAND'S BENEFIT-NIGHT, 
DUMFRIES. [1790.] 

What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, 
How this new play an' that new sang is comin ? 
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted ? 
Does nonsense mend, like whisky, when imported ? 
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame. 
Will try to gie us sang and plays at hame ? 
For comedy abroad he need na toil, 
A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; 
Nor need he hunt as far as Eome and Greece 
To gather matter for a serious piece ; 
There's themes enow in Caledonian story 
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory. 
Is there no daring Bard will rise, and tell 
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell ? 
Where are the muses fled that could produce 
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce ; 



188 PROLOGUE. 

How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword 

'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord ; 

And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, 

Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin? 

O for a Shakespeare or an Otway scene. 

To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen ! 

Vain all the omnipotence of female charms 

'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Eebellion's arms. 

She fell, but fell with spirit truly Eoman, 

To glut the vengeance of a rival woman ; 

A woman, tho' the phrase may seem uncivil, 

As able and as cruel as the devil ! 

One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, 

But Douglases were heroes every age ; 

And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, 

A Douglas follow'd to the martial strife, 

Perhaps, if bowls row right, and Eight succeeds, 

Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads ! 

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 
Would tak' the Muses' servants by the hand ; 
Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them. 
And where ye justly can commend, commend them ; 
And aiblins when they winna stand the test, 
Wink hard and say the folks hae done their best ! 
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution 
Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation 
Will gar Fame blaw until her trumpet crack, 
And warsle Time and lay him on his back 1 

For us and for our stage should ony spier, 
* Whase aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here?' 
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow. 
We hae the honour to belong to you I 
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like. 
But, like good mithers, shore before ye strike — 
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us. 
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness 
We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks : 
God help us ! we're but poor — ye'se get but thanks. 



ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. 
SKETCH, 

Fob Lords or Kings I dinna mourn. 
E'en let them die — for that they're born 
But oh ! prodigious to reflec' ! 
A towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck 1 
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 
What dire events hae taken place ! 



ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. 189 



Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us I 
In what a pickle thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire's tint a head, 
And my auld teethless Bawtie's dead I 
The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt an' Fox, 
An' our gude wife's wee birdy cocks — 
The ane is game, a bluidie devil. 
But to the hen-birds unco civil ; 
The ither's something dour o' treadin', 
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden. 

Ye ministers, come mount the poupit. 
An' cry till ye be hearse an' roupet, 
For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel, 
And gied ye a' baith gear an' meal ; 
E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck. 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck. 

Observe the very nowt an' sheep, 
How dowf and dowie they creep ; 
Nay, even the yerth itsel' does cry. 
For E'mburgh wells are grutten dry. 

O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn, 
An' no ower auld, I hope, to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care. 
Thou now has got thy daddie's chair, 
Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, hap-shackl'd Eegent, 
But, like himsel', a full free agent. 
Be sure ye follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man : 
As muckle better as you can. 

January 1, 1789. 



VERSES WRITTEN UNDER THE 
PORTRAIT OF FERGUSSON 

THE POET, 

I 

IN A COPY OF THAT AUTHOR'S WORKS PRESENTED 
TO A YOUNG LADY IN EDINBURGH, MARCH 

19th, 1787. 

CuBSE on ungrateful man that can be pleas' d, 
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure ! 
O thou, my elder brother in misfortune, 
By far my elder brother in the Muses, 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! 
Why is the Bard unpitied by the world. 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? 



190 LAMENT. 



LAMENT, 

WRITTEN AT A TIME WHEN THE POET WAS 
ABOUT TO LEAVE SCOTLAND. 

O'er the mist -shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain 
straying, 

Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave, 
"What woes wring my heart while intently surveying 

The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave. 

Ye foam- crested billows, allow me to wail 

Ere ye toss me afar from my lov'd native shore, 

Where the flower which bloom' d sweetest in Coila's 
green vale. 
The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more. 

No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander, 
And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave ; 

No more shall my arms cling with fondness around 
her. 
For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave. 

No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast, 
I haste with the storm to a far-distant shore, 

Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest, 
And joy shall revisit my bosom no more. 



DELIA. 
AN ODE. 

Fair the face of orient day, 
Fair the tints of op'ning rose ; 

But fairer still my Delia dawns. 
More lovely far her beauty glows. 

Sweet the lark's wild-warbl'd lay, 
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear ; 

But, Delia, more delightful still 
Steal thine accents on mine ear. 

The flower-enamour' d busy bee 
The rosy banquet loves to sip ; 

Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse 
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lips ; 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove 1 

let me steal one liquid kiss I 
For oh ! my soul is parch'd with love I 



DEATH OF SIR J. H. BLAIR. 191 



ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES 
HUNTER BLAIR. 

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, 
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave ; 

Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the dark'ning air, 
And hollow whistl'd in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander'd by each cli:ff and dell. 
Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train; 

Or mus'd where limpid streams, once jfiallow'd well, 
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. 

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks, 
The clouds swift- wing'd flew o'er the starry sky, 

The groaning trees untimely shed their locks. 
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. 

The pale moon rose in the livid east, 
And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form 

In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, 
And mixed her wailings with the raving storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 
'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd : 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe. 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 

Bevers'd that spear, redoubtable in war; 

Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd. 
That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, 

And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world. 

* My patriot son fills an untimely grave 1 ' 

With accents wild and lifted arms she cried ; 

* Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save, 

Low lies the heart that swell' d with honest pride ! 

* A weeping country joins a widow's tear. 

The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry ; 
The drooping arts surround their patron's bier. 
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh. 

* I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow ; 
But, ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 
Belentless Fate has laid their guardian low. 

* My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung. 

While empty greatness saves a worthless name ? 
No ; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 
And future ages hear his growing fame. 



192 DEATH OF SIR J. ff. BLAIR, 



* And I will join a mother's tender cares, 
Thro' future times to make his virtues last, 

That distant years may boast of other Blairs,' — 
She said, and vanish' d with the sweeping blast. 



TO MISS FERRIER, 

ENCLOSING THE ELEGY ON SIR J. H. BLAIR. 

Nae heathen name shall I prefix 

Frae Pindus or Parnassus ; 
Auld Eeekie dings them a' to sticks 

For rhyme-inspiring lasses. 

Jove's tunefu' dochters three times three 
Made Homer deep their debtor ; 

But, gi'en the body half an e'e. 
Nine Ferriers wad done better I 

Last day my mind was in a bog, 
Down George's Street I stoited; 

A creeping cauld prosaic fog 
My very senses doited. 

Do what I dought to set her free, 

My saul lay in the mire ; 
Ye turned a neuk — I saw your e'e — 

She took the wing like fire ! 

The mournfu' sang I here enclose. 

In gratitude I send you, 
And wish and pray in rhyme sincere 

A' gude things may attend you I 



WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF 

OP A COPY OP THE FIRST EDITION [OF HIS POEMS], 
PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN 
MARRIED. 

Once fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear. 
Sweet early object of my youthful vows. 

Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere ; 
Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty now allows. 

And when you read the simple, artless rhymes. 
One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more. 

Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes, 
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. 



TO HIS ILLEGITIMATE CHILD, 19a 



THE POET'S WELCOME TO HIS 
ILLEGITIMATE CHILD. 

Thou's welcome, wean! mischanter fa' me, 
If ought of thee, or of thy mammy, 
Shall ever daunton me, or awe me, 

My sweet wee lady, 
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me 

Tit-ta or daddy. 

Wee image of my bonnie Betty, 
I fatherly will kiss and daut thee ; 
As dear an' near my heart I set thee 

Wi' as gude will, 
As a' the priests had seen me get thee 

That's out o' hell. 

What tho' they ca' me fornicator, 
An' tease my name in kintra clatter : 
The mair they talk I'm kent the better — 

E'en let them clash ; 
An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter 

To gi'e ane fash. 

An' if thou be what I wad ha'e thee, 
An' tak the counsel I shall gi'e thee, 
A levin' father I'll be to thee, 

If thou be spar'd ; 
Thro' a' thy childish years I'll e'e thee, 

An' think' t weel war'd. 

Gude grant that thou may aye inherit 
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit, 
An' thy poor worthless daddy's spirit, 

Without his failin's, 
'Twill please me mair to hear an' see't, 

Than stockit mailins. 



LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, KIL- 
MARNOCK, 

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. 

O GouDiE ! terror of the Whigs, 
Dread o' black coats and rev'rend wigs, 
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, 

Girnin' looks back, 
Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues 

Wad seize you quick. 

N 



194 LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE. 



Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition, 

Waes me ! she's in a sad condition ; 

Fy, bring Black Jock, her state physician, 

To see her water ; 
Alas ! there's ground o' great suspicion 

She'll ne'er get better. 

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, 
But now she's got an unco ripple ; 
Haste, gi'e her name up i' the chapel, 

Nigh unto death ; 
See how she fetches at the thrapple, 

An' gasps for breath. 

Enthusiasm's past redemption, 

Gaen in a galloping consumption. 

Not a' the quacks, with a' their gumption. 

Will ever mend her ; 
Her feeble pulse gi'es strong presumption 

Death soon will end her. 

'Tis you and Taylor are the chief 
Wha are to blame for this mischief ; 
But gin the Lord's ain folks gat leave, 

A toom tar-barrel 
An' twa red peats wad send relief, 

An' end the quarrel. 



LETTER TO JAMES TENNANT, 
GLENCONNER. 

Auld comrade dear and brither sinner, 
How's a' the folk about Glenconner : 
How do you this blae eastlin' wind, 
That's like to blaw a body blind ? 
For me, my faculties are frozen, 
And ilka member nearly dozen'd. 
I've sent you here by Johnny Simpson 
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on — 
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling. 
An' Keid, to common sense appealing. 
Philosophers have fought an' wrangled, 
An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled, 
Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd. 
An' in the depth of Science mir'd. 
To common sense they now appeal. 
What wives an' wabsters see an' feel. 
But, hark ye, friend, I charge you strictly, 
Peruse them, an' return them quickly. 
For now I'm grown sae cursed douse, 
I pray an' ponder butt the house, 



LETTER TO JAMES TENNANT 195 



My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin', 
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an' Boston ; 
Till by an' by, if I hand on, 
I'll grunt a real Gospel-groan : 
Already I begin to try it. 
To cast my e'en up like a pyet 
When by the gun she tumbles o'er, 
Flutt'ring an' gaspin' in her gore : 
Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 
A burning an' a shining light. 

My heart- warm love to guid auld Glen, 
The ace an' wale of honest men : 
When bending down wi' auld grey hairs 
Beneath the load of years and cares, 
May He who made him still support him, 
An' views beyond the grave comfort him. 
His worthy fam'ly far and near, 
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear ! 

My auld school-fellow, Preacher Willie, 
The manly tar, my mason Billie, 
An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy ; 
If he's a parent, lass or boy. 
May he be dad, and Meg the mither. 
Just five-and-forty years thegither ! 
An' no forgetting wabster Charlie — 
I'm tauld he offers very fairly. 
An' Lord, remember singing Sannock, 
Wi' hale breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock. 
An' next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy, 
Since she is fitted to her fancy ; 
An' her kind stars hae airted till her 
A good chiel wi' a pickle siller. 
My kindest, best respects I sen' it 
To cousin Kate an' sister Janet ; 
Tell them frae me, wi' chiels be cautious, 
For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashions. 
An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel', 
May guardian angels tak a spell. 
An' steer you seven miles south o' hell : 
But first, before ye see heav'n's glory, 
May ye get mony a merry story, 
Mony a laugh, and mony a drink. 
An' aye enough o' needfu' clink. 

Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you, 
For my sake this I beg it o' you. 
Assist poor Simpson a' ye can — 
Ye'll fin' him just an honest man ; 
Sae I conclude and quat my chanter, 
Your's, saint or sinner, 

Bob the Banteb. 



196 EPISTLE FROM E SO PUS TO MARIA, 



EPISTLE FROM ESOPUS TO MARIA. 

From those drear solitudes and tvowzj cells, 

Where infamy with sad repentance dwells ; 

Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast, 

And deal from iron hands the spare repast ; 

Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin, 

Blush at the curious stranger peeping in ; 

Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar, 

Eesolve to drink, nay, half to whore, no more ; 

Where tiny thieves, not destin'd yet to swing, 

Beat hemp for others riper for the string : 

From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date,. 

To tell Maria her Esopus' fate. 

* Alas ! I feel I am no actor here ! ' 

'Tis real hangmen, real scourges bear ! 

Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale 

Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale ; 

Will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy polPd, 

By barber woven, and by barber sold. 

Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest care. 

Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. 

The hero of the mimic scene, no more 

I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar ; 

Or haughty Chieftain, 'mid the din of arms. 

In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms ; 

While sans culottes stoop up the mountain high, 

And steal from me Maria's prying eye. 

Bless'd Highland bonnet ! once my proudest dress^ 

Now prouder still, Maria's temples press. 

I see her wave thy tow'ring plumes afar, 

And call each coxcomb to the wordy war. 

I see her face the first of Ireland's sons, 

And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze ; 

The crafty colonel leaves the tartan' d lines 

For other wars, where he a hero shines ; 

The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred, 

Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head, 

Comes 'mid a string of coxcombs to display, 

That veni, vidi, vici, is his way ; 

The shrinking bard adown an alley skulks, 

And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks : 

Though there his heresies in church and state 

Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate : 

Still she undaunted reels and rattles on, 

And dares the public like a noontide sun. 

(What scandal call'd Maria's jaunty stagger 

The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger ? 

Whose spleen e'en worse than Burns's venom when 

He dips in gall unmix' d his eager pen 



EPISTLE FROM ESOPUS TO MARIA. 197 

And pours his vengeance in the burning line. 
Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre divine, 
The idiot strum of vanity bemused, 
And even th' abuse of poesy abused ; 
Who call'd her verse a parish workhouse, made 
For motley, foundling fancies, stolen or stray'd ?) 
A workhouse ! ah, that sound awakes my woes. 
And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose ! 
In durance vile here must I wake and weep, 
And all my frowzy couch in sorrow steep ; 
That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore, 
And vermin' d gipsies litter' d heretofore. 

Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour. 
Must earth no rascal, save thyself, endure ? 
Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell. 
And make a vast monopoly of hell ? 
Thou know'st the virtues cannot hate thee worse, 
The vices, also, must they club their curse ? 
Or must no tiny sin to others fall. 
Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all ? 

Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares ; 

In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares, 

As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls, 

Who on my fair-one satire's vengeance hurls 

Who calls thee pert, affected, vain coquette, 

A wit in folly, and a fool in wit ? 

Who says that fool alone is not thy due. 

And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true ? 

Our force united on thy foes we'll turn. 

And dare the war with all of women born ; 

For who can write and speak as thou and I ? 

My periods that deciphering defy, 

And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply. 



EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., 
OF FINTRY, 

ON THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION 
BETWEEN SIR JAMES JOHNSTONE AND CAPTAIN 
MILLER, FOR THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF 
BURGHS. 

PiNTRY, my stay in worldly strife. 
Friend o' my Muse, friend o' my life, 

Are ye as idle's I am? 
Come then, wi' uncouth kintra fleg. 
O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg, 

And ye shall see me try him. 



198 EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM. 



I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears, 
Who left the all-important cares 

" Of princes and their darlings^ 
And, bent on winning burgh towns, 
Cam shaking hands wi' wabster loons, 
And kissing barefit carlins. 

Combustion thro' our burghs rode 
Whistling his roaring pack abroad 

Of mad unmuzzl'd lions; 
As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl'd, 
And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd 

To every Whig defiance. 

But cautious Queensberry left the war — 
Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star : 

Besides, he hated bleeding ; 
But left behind him heroes bright. 
Heroes in Ceesarean fight, 

Or Ciceronian pleading. 

! for a throat like huge Mons-Meg, 
To muster o'er each ardent Whig 

Beneath Drumlanrig' s banner t 
Heroes and heroines commix 
All in the field of politics. 

To win immortal honour, 

M'Murdo and his lovely spouse 

(Th' enamour' d laurels kiss her brows !) 

Led on the loves and graces ; 
She won each gaping burgess heart. 
While he, all-conquering, play'd his part 

Among their wives and lasses. 

Craigdarroch led a light-arm'd corps. 
Tropes, metaphors, and figures pour, 

Like Hecla streaming thunder : 
Glenriddle, skill' d in rusty coins, 
Blew up each Tory's dark designs, 

And bared the treason under. 

In either wing two champions fought, 
Redoubted Staig, who set at nought 

The wildest savage Tory : 
And Welsh, who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground^ 
High-waved his magnum-bonum sound 

With Cyclopean fury. 

Miller brought up th' artillery ranks, 
The many pounders of the Banks — 
Resistless desolation 1 



EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM. IQ^ 

While Maxwelton, that baron bold, 
'Mid Lawson's port entrench'd his hold, 

And threaten'd worse damnation. 

To these what Tory hosts oppos'd, 
With these what Tory warriors clos'd, 

Surpasses my describing ; 
Squadrons extended long and large, 
With furious speed rush to the charge, 

Like raging devils driving. 

What verse can sing, what prose narrate, 
The butcher deeds of bloody Fate 

Amid this mighty tulzie ! 
Grim Horror girn'd — pale Terror roar'd, 
As Murther at his thrapple shor'd. 

And Hell mix'd in the brulzie. 

As Highland crags by thunder cleft, 
When lightnings fire the stormy lift. 

Hurl down with crashing rattle ; 
As flames among a hundred woods ; 
As headlong foam a hundred floods ; 

Such is the rage of battle ! 

The stubborn Tories dare to die ; 
As soon the rooted oaks would fly 

Before th' approaching fellers ; 
The Whigs come on like ocean's roar. 
When all his wintry billows pour 

Against the Buchan Bullers. 

Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night, 
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight. 

And think on former daring : 
The muffled murtherer of Charles 
The Magna Charta flag unfurls. 

All deadly gules its bearing. 

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame. 

Bold Scrimgeour follows gallant Graham — 

And Covenanters shiver. 
(Forgive, forgive, much wrong'd Montrose I 
Now Death and hell engulf thy foes. 

Thou liv'st on high for ever !) 

Still o'er the field the combat burns. 
The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns ; 

But Fate the word has spoken. 
For woman's wit and strength o' man, 
Alas ! can do but what they can ! 

The Tory ranks are broken. 



200 EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM. 



that my e'en were flowing burns ! 
My voice a lioness that mourns 

Her darling cubs' undoing ! 
That I might greet, that I might cry, 
While Tories fall, while Tories fly. 

And furious Whigs pursuing ! 

What Whig but melts for good Sir James ? 
Dear to his country by the names 

Friend, patron, benefactor ? 
Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save ! 
And Hopeton falls, the generous brave ! 

And Stewart, bold as Hector ! 

Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow ; 
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe ; 

And Melville melt in wailing ! 
How Fox and Sheridan rejoice ! 
And Burke shall sing, * Prince, arise, 

Thy power is all prevailing ! * 

For your poor friend, the Bard, afar 
He only hears and sees the war, 

A cool spectator purely ! 
So, when the storm the forest rends, 
The robin in the hedge descends. 

And sober chirps securely. 



STANZAS ON THE DUKE OF QUEENS- 
BERRY. 

How shall I sing Drumlanrig's Grace, 
Discarded remnant of a race 

Once great in martial story ? 
His forbears' virtues all contrasted^ 
The very name of Douglas blasted — 

His that inverted glory. 

Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore ; 
But he has superadded more, 

And sunk them in contempt : 
Follies and crimes have stained the name, 
But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim. 

From aught that's good exempt. 



VERSES 

ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WOODS NEAR 
DRUMLANRIG. 

As on the banks o' wand' ring Nith 

Ae smiling simmer-morn I stray'd, 
And traced its bonnie howes and haughs, 

Where linties sang and lambkins play'd, 
I sat me down upon a craig, 

And drank my fill o' Fancy's dream, 
When, from the eddying deep below, 

Uprose the Genius of the stream. 

Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow. 
And troubled, like his wintry wave, 

And deep, as soughs the boding wind 
Amang his eaves, the sigh he gave. 

* And came ye here, my son,' he cried, 

* To wander in my birken shade ? 
To muse some favourite Scottish theme, 
Or sing some favourite Scottish maid ? 

* There was a time, it's nae lang syne, 

Ye might hae seen me in my pride, 
When a' my banks sae bravely saw 

Their woody pictures in my tide ; 
When hanging beech and spreading elm 

Shaded my stream sae clear and cool, 
And stately oaks their twisted arms 

Threw broad and dark across the pool ; 

* When glinting through the trees appear'd 

The wee white cot aboon the mill, 
And peacefu' rose its ingle reek, 

That slowly curled up the hill. 
But now the cot is bare and cauld. 

Its branchy shelter's lost and gane, 
And scarce a stinted birk is left 

To shiver in the blast its lane.' 

* Alas ! ' said I, * what ruefu' chance 

Has twined ye o' your stately trees ? 
Has laid your rocky bosom bare ? 

Has stripped the deeding o' your braes ? 
Was it the bitter eastern blast 

That scatters blight in early spring ? 
Or was't the wil'fire scorch'd their boughs, 

Or canker-worm wi' secret sting ? ' 



202 ON DESTRUCTION OF WOODS. 



' Nae eastlin' blast,' the sprite replied ; 

' It blew na here sae fierce and fell, 
And on my dry and halesome banks 

Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell : 
Man ! cruel man ! ' the Genius sigh'd — 

As through the cliffs he sank him down- 
* The worm that gnaw'd my bonnie trees, 

That reptile wears a ducal crown.* 



EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. 

Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie ! 
Though Fortune's road be rough an' hilly 
To every fiddling, rhyming biilie, 

We never heed. 
But take it like the unback'd filly. 

Proud o' her speed. 

When idly goavan whyles we saunter, 

Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter 

Up hill, down brae, till some mischanter, 

Some black bog-hole 
Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter 

We're forced to thole. 

Hale be your heart ! hale be your fiddle ! 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle. 
To cheer you through the weary widdle 

0' this wild warl'. 
Until you on a crummock driddle 

A gray-hair'd carl. 
Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon, 
Heaven send your heart-strings ay in tune, 
And screw your temper-pins aboon, 

A fifth or mair, 
The melancholious, lazy croon 

O' cankrie care. 

May still your life from day to day 
Nae ' lente largo ' in the play. 
But ' allegretto forte ' gay 

Harmonious flow, 
A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey — 

Encore ! bravo I 
A blessing on the cheery gang 
Wha dearly like a jig or sang, 
An' never think o' right an' wrang 

By square an' rule. 
But as the clegs o' feeling stang 

Are wise or fool. 



EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN, 203 



My hand- waled curse keep hard in chase 
The harpy, hoodeock, purse-proud race, 
Wha count on poortith as disgrace — 

Their tuneless hearts ! 
May fire -side discords jar a base 

To a* their parts ! 

But come, your hand, my careless brither, 
I' th' ither warl', if there is anither — 
An' that there is I've little swither 

About the matter 
We cheek for chow shall jog thegither, 

I'se ne'er bid better. 

We've faults and failings — granted clearly, 
We're frail backsliding mortals merely ; 
Eve's bonnie squad priests wyte them sheerly 

For our grand fa' ; 
But still, but still, I like them dearly — 

God bless them a' ! 

Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers. 
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers, 
The witching, cursed delicious blinkers 

Hae put me hyte. 
And gart me weet my waukrif e winkers 

Wi' girnin' spite. 

But by yon moon ! — and that's high swearin'- 
An' every star within my hearin' ! 
An' by her e'en wha was a dear ane ! 

I'll ne'er forget ; 
I hope to gi'e the jads a clearin' 

In fair play yet. 

My loss I mourn, but not repent it, 
I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it, 
Ance to the Indies I were wanted. 

Some cantraip hour, 
By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted, 

Then vive V amour ! 

Faites mes haissemains respectueuse 

To sentimental sister Susie 

An' honest Lucky ; no to roose you. 

Ye may be proud 
That sic a couple Fate allows ye 

To grace your blood. 

Nae mair at present can I measure, 

An* trowth my rhymin' ware's nae treasure ; 



204 EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN, 



But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure, 
Be't light, be't dark. 

Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure 
To call at Park. 

Egbert Burns. 
Mossgiel, SOth October, 1786. 



A FAREWELL. 

Faeewell, dear Friend ! may guid luck hit you, 
And 'mang her favourites admit you ! 
If e'er Detraction shore to smit you. 

May nane believe him ! 
And ony Deil that thinks to get you, 

Good Lord, deceive him. 



THE FAREWELL. 

Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains, 
Far dearer than the torrid plains 

Where rich ananas blow ! 
Farewell, a mother's blessing dear ! 
A brother's sigh ! a sister's tear ! 
My Jean's heart-rending throe ! 
Farewell, my Bess 1 tho' thou'rt bereft 

Of my paternal care ; 
A faithful brother I have left, 
My part in him thou 'It share ! 
Adieu, too, to you too, 

My Smith, my bosom frien' I 
When kindly you mind me, 
then befriend my Jean ! 

When bursting anguish tears my heart 
From thee, my Jeannie, must I part ! 

Thou weeping answ'rest * no ! ' 
Alas ! misfortune stares my face, 
And points to ruin and disgrace — 

I for thy sake must go ! 
Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, 

A grateful, warm adieu ! 
I with a much-indebted tear 
Shall still remember you ! 
All-hail then, the gale then 

Wafts me from thee, dear shore I 
It rustles, and whistles, 
I'll never see thee more ! 



ON A SUICIDE, 205 



ON A SUICIDE. 

Barth'd up here lies an imp o' hell, 
Planted by Satan's dibble — 

Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd himseF 
To save the Lord the trouble. 



EPITAPH ON THE POET'S 
DAUGHTER. 

Here lies a rose, a budding rose, 

Blasted before its bloom ; 
Whose innocence did sweets disclose 

Beyond that flower's perfume. 
To those who for her loss are grieved 

This consolation's given — 
She's from a world of woe relieved, 

And blooms a rose in heaven. 



EPITAPH ON GABRIEL RICHARDSON. 

Here Brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct. 

And empty all his barrels : 
He's blest — if, as he brew'd, he drink 

In upright honest morals. 



ON STIRLING. 

Here Stuarts once in glory reign' d, 

And laws for Scotland's weal ordain' d ; 

But now unroof'd their palace stands. 

Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands ; 

The injured Stuart line is gone, 

A race outlandish fills their throne — 

An idiot race to honour lost, 

Who know them best despise them most. 



LINES 

ON BEING TOLD THAT THE ABOVE VERSES 
WOULD AFFECT HIS PROSPECTS. 

Bash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name 
Shall no longer appear in the records of fame ; 
Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like 

the Bible, 
Says the more 'tis a truth, sir, the more 'tis a libel ? 



206 EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER. 



REPLY TO THE MINISTER OF 
GLADSMUIR. 

Like E sop's lion, Burns says, Sore I feel 
All others' scorn — but damn that ass's heel. 



EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER. 

In this strange land, this uncouth clime, 

A land unknown to prose or rhyme ; 

Where words ne'er crost the Muse's heckles, 

Nor limpit in poetic shackles ; 

A land that prose did never view it, 

Except when drunk he stacher't through it ; 

Here, ambush' d by the chimla cheek, 

Hid in an atmosphere of reek, 

I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, 

I hear it — for in vain I leuk. 

The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel 

Enhusked by a fog infernal : 

Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, 

I sit and count my sins by chapters ; 

For life and spunk, like ither Christians, 

I'm dwindled down to mere existence, 

Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies, 

Wi' nae kend face but Jenny Geddes. 

Jenny, my Pegasean pride ! 

Dowie she saunters down Nithside. 

And aye a westlin' leuk she throws. 

While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose ! 

Was it for this, wi' canny care. 

Thou bure the Bard through many a shire ? 

At howes or hillocks never stumbled. 

And late or early never grumbled ? 

0, had I power like inclination, 

I'd heeze thee up a constellation. 

To canter with the Sagitarre, 

Or loup the ecliptic like a bar ; 

Or turn the pole like any arrow ; 

Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow, 

Down the zodiac urge the race, 

And cast dirt on his godship's face ; 

For I could lay my bread and kail 

He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail. 

Wi' a' this care and a' this grief, 

And sma', sma' prospect of relief. 

And nought but peat-reek i' my head. 

How can I write what ye can read ? 



EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER. 207 



Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June, 
Ye' 11 find me in a better tune ; 
But till we meet and weet our whistle, 
Take this excuse for nae epistle. 

Egbert Bubns. 



ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB 

TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY. 

Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours, 

Unskaith'd by hunger' d Highland boors ; 

Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar, 

Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, 

May twin auld Scotland o' a life 

She likes*-as lambkins like the knife. 

Faith, you and Applecross were right 

To keep the Highland hounds in sight, 

I doubt na ! they wad bid nae better 

Than let them ance out owre the water. 

Than up amang the lakes and seas 

They'll mak' what rules and laws they please. 

Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin, 

May set their Highland bluid a ranklin' ; 

Some Washington again may head them, 

Or some Montgomery fearless lead them, 

Till God knows what may be effected 

When by such heads and hearts directed ; 

Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire 

May to Patrician rights aspire I 

Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville, 

To watch and premier o'er the pack vile, 

An' whare will ye get Howes and Clintons 

To bring them to a right repentance, 

To cowe the rebel generation. 

An' save the honour o' the nation ? 

They, an' be d d ! what right hae they 

To meat, or sleep, or light o' day ! 

Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom. 

But what your lordship likes to gi'e them ? 

But hear, my Lord ! Glengarry, hear ! 
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear ; 
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, 
I canna say but they do gaylies ; 
They lay aside a' tender mercies, 
An' tirl the hallions to the birses ; 
Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, 
They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit ; 



ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB, 



But smash them ! crash them a' to spails ! 

An' rot the dyvors i* the jails ! 

The young dogs, swinge them to the labour I 

Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober ! 

The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont, 

Let them in Drury Lane be lesson' d ! 

An' if the wives an' dirty brats 

E'en thigger at your doors an' yetts, 

Flaffan wi' duds an' grey wi' beas', 

Frightin' awa your deucks and geese, 

Get out a horsewhip or a jowler, 

The langest thong, the fiercest growler, 

An' gar the tatter' d gipsies pack 

Wi' a' their bastards on their back ! 

Go on, my lord ! I long to meet you, 

An' in my house at hame to greet you ; 

Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle, 

The benmost neuk beside the ingle, 

At my right han' assign'd your seat 

'Tween Herod's hip an' Polycrate, — 

Or if you on your station tarry 

Between Almagro and Pizarro, 

A seat, I'm sure, ye're weel deservin't ; 

An' till ye come — Your humble servant, 

Beelzebub 
June. 1, Anno Mundi 5790. [a.d. 1786.] 



TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 

Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse 

E'er bring you in by Mauchline Cross, 

Lord, man, there's lasses there wad force 

A hermit's fancy, 
And down the gate in faith they're worse, 

And mair unchancy. 

But, as I'm sayin', please step to Dow's 
And taste sic gear as Johnny brews. 
Till some bit callan brings me news 

That you are there, 
And if we dinna hand a bouse 

I'se ne'er drink mair. 

It's no I like to sit an' swallow. 
Then like a swine to puke an' wallow, 
But gi'e me just a true good fallow 

Wi' right ingine. 
And spunkie ance to make us mellow, 

And then we'll shine. 



TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 20» 



Now if ye' re ane o' warPs folk, 
Wha rate the wearer by the cloak, 
An' sklent on poverty their joke 

Wi' bitter sneer, 
Wi' you no friendship I will troke 

Nor cheap nor dear. 

But if, as I'm informed weel. 
Ye hate as ill's the vera deil 
The flinty hearts that canna feel, 

Come, Sir, here's tae you ; 
Hae, there's my han', I wish you weel. 

And gude be wi' you. 



ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT 
DUNDAS, ESQ., 

OF ARNISTON, LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE 
COURT OF SESSION. 

Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks 
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks ; 
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, 
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains ; 
Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan ; 
The hollow caves return a sullen moan. 

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves, 
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves ! 
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye. 
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly ; 
Where, to the whistling blast and water's roar, 
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore. 

heavy loss thy country ill could bear I 

A loss these evil days can ne'er repair ! 

Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, 

Her doubtful balance eyed, and sway'd her rod ; 

Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow. 

She sank abandon'd to the wildest woe. 

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den. 
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men : 
See from his cavern grim Oppression rise. 
And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes ; 
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly. 
And stifle dark the feeble bursting cry : 

Mark ruffian Violence, distain'd with crimes, 
Bousing elate in these degenerate times ; 
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey. 
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way : 





210 DEA TH OF ROBERT DUNDAS. 



While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue 
The life-blood equal sucks of Eight and Wrong : 
Hark, injur 'd Want recounts th* unlisten'd tale, 
And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours the unpitied wail I 

Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains, 
To you I sing my grief -inspired strains : 
Ye tempests rage ! ye turbid torrents roll I 
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. 
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign, 
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine, 
To mourn the woes my country must endure, 
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure. 



TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. 

0, COULD I give thee India's wealth. 

As I this trifle send ! 
Because thy joy in both would be 

To share them with a friend. 
But golden sands did never grace 

The Heliconean stream ; 
Then take what gold could never buy- 

An honest Bard's esteem. 



ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG, 

NAMED 'ECHO.' 

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng. 

Your heavy loss deplore ; 
Now half-extinct your powers of song. 

Sweet Echo is no more, 
Ye jarring, screeching things around, 

Scream your discordant joys ; 
Now half your din of tuneless sound 

With Echo silent lies. 



LINES WRITTEN AT LOUDON 
MANSE. 

The night was still, and o'er the hill 

The moon shone on the castle wa'. 
The mavis sang, while dew-drops hang 

Around her, on the castle wa', 
Sae merrily they danced the ring, 

Frae e'enin' till the cock did craw : 
And aye the o'erword o' the spring 

Was Irvine's bairns are bonnie a'. 



ORTHODOX^ ORTHODOX. 211 



ORTHODOX, ORTHODOX. 

A SECOND VERSION OP THE KIRK'S ALARM. 

Orthodox, orthodox, 

Who believe in John Ejiox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience — 

There's an heretic blast 

Has been blawn i' the wast 
That what is not sense must be nonsense, 

Orthodox, 
That what is not sense must be nonsense. 

Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac, 

Ye should stretch on a rack, 
To strike evil-doers wi' terror ; 

To join faith and sense, 

Upon any pretence, 
Was heretic damnable error, 

Doctor Mac, 
Was heretic damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, 

It was rash, I declare, 
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; 

Provost John is still deaf 

To the church's relief. 
And orator Bob is its ruin. 

Town of Ayr, 
And orator Bob is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, 

Tho' your heart's like a child, 
And your life's like the new-driven snaw. 

Yet that winna save ye, 

Old Satan must have ye 
For preaching that three's ane an' twa, 

D'rymple mild. 
For preaching that three's ane an' twa. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, 

Seize your spiritual guns. 
Ammunition ye never can need; 

Your hearts are the stuff 

Will be powder enough. 
And your skulls are a storehouse of lead, 

Calvin's sons. 
And your skulls are a storehouse of lead. 

Bumble John, Bumble John, 
Mount the steps with a groan, 



212 ORTHODOX, ORTHODOX. 



Cry the book is with heresy cramm'd ; 

Then lug out your ladle, 

Deal brimstone like aidle, 
And roar every note o' the damn'd, 

Kumble John, 
And roar every note o' the damn'd. 

Simper James, Simper James, 

Leave the fair Killie dames, 
There's a holier chase in your view; 

I'll lay on your head 

That the pack ye'll soon lead, 
For puppies like you there's but few. 

Simper James, 
For puppies like you there's but few. 

Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie, 

Are ye huirding the penny. 
Unconscious what danger awaits ? 

With a jump, yell, and howl. 

Alarm every soul. 
For Hannibal's just at your gates, 

Singet Sawnie, 
For Hannibal's just at your gates. 

Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk, 

Ye may slander the book. 
And the book nought the waur — let me tell yon 

Tho' ye're rich and look big. 

Yet lay by hat and wig. 
And ye'll hae a calf's-head o' sma' value, 

Andro Gowk, 
And ye*ll hae a calf's-head o' sma' value. 

Poet Willie, Poet Willie, 

Gi'e the doctor a volley, 
Wi' your 'liberty's chain ' and your wit: 

O'er Pegasus' side, 

Ye ne'er laid a stride. 
Ye only stood by when he sh — , 

Poet Willie, 
Ye only stood by when he sh — . 

Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, 

What mean ye ? what mean ye ? 
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 

Ye may hae some pretence, man. 

To havins and sense, man, 
Wi' people that ken ye nae better, 

Barr Steenie, 
Wi* people that ken ye nae better. 



ORTHODOX, ORTHODOX. 213 



Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose, 

Ye hae made but toom roose 
0' hunting the wicked lieutenant ; 

But the doctor's your mark, 

For the Lord's holy ark 
He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't, 

Jamie Goose, 
He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't. 

Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, 

For a saunt if ye muster, 
It's a sign they're no nice o' recruits. 

Yet to worth let's be just, 

Koyal blood ye might boast 
If the ass were the king o' the brutes, 

Davie Bluster, 
If the ass were the king o' the brutes. 

Muirland Jock, Muirland Jock, 

Whom the Lord made a scourge 
To claw common sense for her sins ; 

If ill-manners were wit. 

There's no mortal so fit 
To confound the poor doctor at ance, 

Muirland Jock, 
To confound the poor doctor at ance. 

Cessnockside, Cessnockside, 

Wi' your turkey-cock pride, 
0' manhood but sma' is your share ! 

Ye've the figure, it is true. 

Even your foes maun alloo. 
And your friends daurna say ye hae mair, 

Cessnockside, 
And your friends daurna say ye hae mair, 

Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld, 

There's a tod i' the fauld, 
A tod meikle waur than the clerk ; 

Tho' ye downa do skaith, 

Ye'U be in at the death. 
And if ye canna bite ye can bark, 

Daddie Auld, 
And if ye canna bite ye can bark. 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, 

Wi' your priest-skelping turns. 
Why desert ye your auld native shire ? 

Tho' your Muse is a gipsy. 

Yet were she even tipsy. 
She could ca' us nae waur than we are, 

Poet Burns, 
She could ca' us nae waur than we are. 



214 ORTHODOX, ORTHODOX. 



POSTSCRIPT. 
Afton's Laird, Afton's Laird, 
When your pen can be spared, 
A copy o' this I bequeath, 
On the same sicker score 
I mentioned before, 
To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith, 

Af ton's Laird, 
To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith. 



THE SELKIRK GRACE. 

Some hae meat and canna eat. 
And some wad eat that want it ; 

But we hae meat, and we can eat, 
And sae the Lord be thankit. 



ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF PEG 
NICHOLSON. 

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare 

As ever trode on airn ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

An' past the mouth o' Cairn. 

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare. 

An' rode thro' thick an' thin ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

An' wantin' even the skin. 

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare. 

An' ance she bare a priest ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

For Solway fish a feast. 

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare, 
An' the priest he rode her sair ; 

An' meikle oppress' d an' bruis'd she was, 
As priest-rid cattle are. 



ON SEEING MISS FONTENELLE 

IN A FAVOURITE CHARACTER. 

Sweet naivete of feature, 

Simple, wild, enchanting elf, 

Not to thee, but thanks to Nature, 
Thou art acting but thyself. 



ON SEEING MISS FONTENELLE. 215 



Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected, 
Spurning nature, torturing art. 

Loves and graces all rejected, 
Then indeed thou'dst act a part. 



THE SOLEMN LEAGUE AND 
COVENANT. 

The Solemn League and Covenant 
Now brings a smile, now brings a tear ; 

But sacred Freedom, too, was theirs : 
If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneer. 



INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET. 

WRITTEN IN THE HOUSE OF MR. SYME. 

There's death in the cup — sae beware I 
Nay, more — there is danger in touching ; 

But wha can avoid the fell snare ? 

The man and his wine's sae bewitching ! 



THE BOOK-WORMS. 

Through and through the inspired leaves, 
Ye maggots, make your windings ; 

But, oh 1 respect his lordship's taste, 
And spare his golden bindings. 



ON ROBERT RIDDEL. 

To Eiddel, much lamented man, 

This ivied cot was dear ; 
Beader, dost value matchless worth ? 

This ivied cot revere. 



WILLIE CHALMERS. 

Wi* braw new branks in meikle pride, 
And eke a braw new brechan. 

My Pegasus I'm got astride. 
And up Parnassus pechin' ; 



216 WILLIE CHALMERS. 



While owre a bush wi' downward crush 
The doited beastie stammers ; 

Then up he gets, and off he sets 
For sake o' Willie Chalmers. 

I doubt na, lass, that weel-kenn'd name 

May cost a pair o' blushes ; 
I am nae stranger to your fame, 

Nor his warm urged wishes. 
Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet 

His honest heart enamours, 
And faith ye' 11 no be lost a whit 

The' waired on Willie Chalmers. 

Auld Truth hersel' might swear ye're fair, 

And Honour safely back her. 
And Modesty assume your air, 

And ne'er a ane mistak' her : 
And sic twa love-inspiring een 

Might fire even holy palmers ; 
Nae wonder, then, they've fatal been 

To honest Willie Chalmers. 

I doubt na Fortune may you shore 

Some mim-mou'd pouther'd priestie, 
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore. 

And band upon his breastie : 
But oh ! what signifies to you 

His lexicons and grammars ; 
The feeling heart's the royal blue, 

And that's wi' Willie Chalmers. 

Some gap in', glowrin' countra laird 

May warsle for your favour ; 
May claw his lug, and streak his beard, 

And hoast up some palaver. 
My bonnie maid, before ye wed 

Sic clumsy-witted hammers. 
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp 

Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers. 

Forgive the Bard ! my fond regard 

For ane that shares my bosom, 
Inspires my muse to gi'e 'm his dues, 

For deil a hair I roose him. 
May powers aboon unite you soon, 

And fructify your amours, — 
And every year come in mair dear 

To you and Willie Chalmers. 



TO JOHN TA YLOR. 217 



TO JOHN TAYLOR. 

With Pegasus upon a day, 

Apollo weary flying, 
Through frosty hills the journey lay, 

On foot the way was plying. 

Poor slip -shod giddy Pegasus 

Was but a sorry walker ; 
To Vulcan then Apollo goes, 

To get a frosty calker. 

Obliging Vulcan fell to work, 
Threw by his coat and bonnet. 

And did Sol's business in a crack ; 
Sol paid him with a sonnet. 

Ye Vulcan's sons o' Wanlockhead, 

Pity my sad disaster ; 
My Pegasus is poorly shod — 

I'll pay you like my master. 



LINES V^RITTEN ON A BANK-NOTE 

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf ! 

Fell source o' a' my woe and grief ! 

For lack o' thee I've lost my lass I 

For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass 1 

I see the children of affliction 

Unaided thro' thy cursed restriction. 

I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile 

Amid his hapless victim's spoil. 

For lack o' thee I leave this much-loved shore. 

Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. 

R. B., KyU, 



THE LOYAL NATIVES' VERSES. 

Ye sons of sedition, give ear to my song. 
Let Syme, Burns, and Maxwell pervade every throng, 
With Cracken the attorney, and Mundell the quack, 
Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack. 

Theit verses were handed over the table to Burns at a convivial 
meeting, and he endorsed the subjoined reply : 



218 BURNS— EXTEMPORE. 



BURNS— EXTEMPORE. 

Yb true * Loyal Natives ' attend to my song, 

In uproar and riot rejoice the night long ; 

From envy and hatred your corps is exempt ; 

But where is your shield from the darts of contempt? 



REMORSE. 

Or all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, 

That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish, 

Beyond comparison the worst are those 

That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 

In every other circumstance, the mind 

Has this to say — ' It was no deed of mine ; * 

But when to all the evils of misfortune 

This sting is added — * Blame thy foolish self I * 

Or worser far, the pangs of keen Remorse ; 

The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt — 

Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others ; 

The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us. 

Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin I 

O burning hell I in all thy store of torments, 

There's not a keener lash I 

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 

Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, 

Can reason down his agonizing throbs ; 

And, after proper purpose of amendment, 

Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace? 

0, happy I happy ! enviable man ! 

glorious magnanimity of soul ! 



THE TOAD-EATER. 

What of earls with whom you have supt, 
And of dukes that you dined with yestreen ? 

Lord 1 a louse. Sir, is still but a louse, 
Though it crawl on the curls of a Queen. 



TO . 

Mossgiel, , 1786. 

Yours this moment I unseal, 
And faith I'm gay and hearty ! 

To tell the truth an' shame the deil, 
I am as fu' as Bartie : 



TO . 219 

But foorsday, Sir, my promise l«al, 

Expect me o' your party, 
If on a beastie I can speel, 

Or hurl in a car tie. 

B. B. 



"IN VAIN WOULD PRUDENCE." 

In vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer, 
Point out a cens'ring world, and bid me fear ; 
Above that world on wings of love I rise, 
I know its worst — and can that worst despise. 
* Wrong' d, injur' d, shunn'd ; unpitied, unredrest. 
The mock'd quotation of the scorner's jest.' 
Let Prudence' direst bodements on me fall, 
Clarinda, rich reward ! o'erpays them all ! 



"THOUGH FICKLE FORTUNE." 

Though fickle Fortune has deceived me, 

She promis'd fair and perform'd but ill ; 
Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me, 

Yet I bear a heart shall support me still. 
I'll act with prudence as far's I'm able. 

But if success I must never find, 
Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome, 

I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind. 



"I BURN, I BURN." 

* I BURN, I burn, as when thro' ripen' d corn 
By driving winds the crackling flames are borne,* 
Now maddening, wild, I curse that fatal night ; 
Now bless the hour which charm' d my guilty sight. 
In vain the Laws their feeble force oppose : 
Chain'd at his feet they groan, Love's vanquish' d foes. 
In vain Religion meets my sinking eye ; 
I dare not combat — but I turn and fly ; 
Conscience in vain upbraids th' unhallow'd fire ; 
Love grasps his scorpions — stifled they expire ! 
Reason drops headlong from his sacred throne, 
Your dear idea reigns and reigns alone : 
Each thought intoxicated homage yields. 
And riots wanton in forbidden fields ! 

By all on high adoring mortals know ! 
By all the conscious villain fears below ! 
By your dear self ! — the last great oath I swear ; 
Nor life nor soul were ever half so dear I 



220 EPIGRAM ON A NOTED COXCOMB. 



EPIGRAM ON A NOTED COXCOMB. 

Light lay the earth on Billy's breast, 

His chicken heart so tender ; 
But build a castle on his head, 

His skull will prop it under. 



TAM THE CHAPMAN. 

As Tarn the Chapman on a day 

Wi' Death forgather' d by the way, 

Weel pleas'd he greets a wight sae famous, 

And Death was nae less pleas'd wi' Thomas. 

Wha cheerfully lays down the pack. 

And there blaws up a hearty crack ; 

His social, friendly, honest heart 

Sae tickled Death they couldna part : 

Sae after viewing knives and garters, 

Death takes him hame to gi'e him quarters. 



ON MISS JESSY LEWARS. 

Talk not to me of savages 
From Afric's burning sun, 

No savage e'er could rend my heart. 
As, Jessy, thou hast done. 

But Jessy's lovely hand in mine, 

A mutual faith to plight, 
Not ev'n to view the heavenly choir 

Would be so blest a sight. 



EPITAPH ON MISS JESSY LEWARS. 

Say, Sages, what's the charm on earth 

Can turn Death's dart aside ? 
It is not purity and worth, 

Else Jessy had not died. 



THE RECOVERY OF JESSY LEWARS. 

But rarely seen since Nature's birth, 

The natives of the sky. 
Yet still one Seraph's left on earth, 

For Jessy did not die. 



THE TOAST. 221 



THE TOAST. 

Fill me with the rosy wine, 
Call a toast, a toast divine ; 
Give the Poet's darling flame, 
Lovely Jessy be the name ; 
Then thou mayest freely boast, 
Thou hast given a peerless toast. 



THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON. 

As cauld a wind as ever blew, 
A caulder kirk, and in't but few ; 
As cauld a minister's e'er spak, 
Ye'se a' be het ere I come back. 



WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF 

OF ONE OF MISS HANNAH MORE'S WORKS, WHICH 
SHE HAD GIVEN HIM. 

Thou flattering mark of friendship kind. 
Still may thy pages call to mind 

The dear, the beauteous donor : 
Though sweetly female every part. 
Yet such a head, and more the heart. 

Does both the sexes honour. 
Show'd her tastes refined and just 

When she selected thee. 
Yet deviating, own I must. 
For so approving me. 
But kind still, I'll mind still 

The giver in the gift ; 
I'll bless her and wiss her 
A Friend above the Lift, 



TO DR. MAXWELL, 

ON MISS JESSY STAIG'S RECOVERY. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave. 

That merit I deny : 
You saved fair Jessy from the grave ? 

An angel could not die. 



222 FRAGMENT. 



FRAGMENT. 

Now health forsakes that angel face, 
Nae mair my dearie smiles ; 

Pale sickness withers ilka grace, 
And a' my hopes beguiles. 

The cruel powers reject the prayer 

I hourly mak' for thee ; 
Ye heavens, how great is my despair, 

How can I see him dee ? 



THERE'S NAETHIN' LIKE THE 
HONEST NAPPY. 

There's naethin' like the honest nappy 1 
Whaur'll ye e'er see men sae happy. 
Or women sonsie, saft, an' sappy, 

'Tween morn an' morn, 
As them wha like to taste the drappie 

In glass or horn. 

I've seen me daz't upon a time ; 
I scarce could wink or see a styme ; 
Just ae hauf mutchkin does me prime. 

Ought less is little, 
Then back I rattle on the rhyme 

As gleg's a whittle I 



PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT, 
MONDAY, APRIL 16, 1787. 

When by a generous public's kind acclaim 
That dearest meed is granted — honest fame ; 
When here your favour is the actor's lot. 
Nor even the man in private life forgot ; 
What breast so dead to heav'nly virtue's glow, 
But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe? 
Poor is the task to please a barb'rous throng. 
It needs no Siddons' power in southern's song: 
But here an ancient nation, fam'd afar 
For genius, learning high, as great in war — 
Hail, Caledonia ! name for ever dear ! 
Before whose sons I'm honour'd to appear 1 
Where every science, every nobler art 
That can inform the mind, or mend the heart. 
Is known ; as grateful nations oft have found, 
Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound. 



PROLOGUE. 223 



Philosophy, no idle, pedant dream, 

Here holds her search, by heaven-taught Eeason's 

beam ; 
Here History paints with elegance and force 
The tide of Empire's fluctuating course ; 
Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into plan, 
And Harley rouses all the god in man. 
When well-form'd taste and sparkling wit unite, 
With manly love, or female beauty bright 
(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace 
Can only charm us in the second place), 
Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear. 
As on this night, I've met these judges here I 
But still the hope Experience taught to live, 
Equal to judge — you're candid to forgive. 
No hundred-headed Eiot here we meet, 
With decency and law beneath his feet, 
Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name ; 
Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame. 

Thou, dread Power ! whose empire-giving hand 
Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honour' d land. 
Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire ; 
May every son be worthy of his sire ; 
Firm may she rise with generous disdain 
At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain; 
Still self-dependent in her native shore, 
Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar, 
Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more. 



NATURE'S LAW. 

A POEM HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO G. H., ESQ. 

** Great Nature spoke, observant man obeyed," 

Pope. 
Let other heroes boast their scars. 

The marks of sturt and strife : 
And other poets sing of wars, 

The plagues of human life ; 
Shame fa' the fun ; wi' sword and gun 

To slap mankind like lumber ! 
I sing his name and nobler fame, 

Wha multiplies our number. 

Great Nature spoke, with air benign, 

* Go on, ye human race ! 
This lower world I you resign ; 

Be fruitful and increase. 
The liquid fire of strong desire 

I've pour'd it in each bosom ; 



224 NATURE'S LAW. 



Here, in this hand, does Mankind stand. 
And there is Beauty's blossom I ' 

The Hero of these artless strains 

A lowly Bard was he, 
"Who sung his rhymes in Coila's plains 

With meikle mirth an' glee ; 
Kind Nature's care had given his share, 

Large, of the flaming current ; 
And, all devout, he never sought 

To stem the sacred torrent. 

He felt the powerful, high behest, 

Thrill, vital, thro' and thro' ; 
And sought a correspondent breast 

To give obedience due ; 
Propitious Powers screen'd the young flow'rs 

From mildews of abortion ; 
And lo ! the Bard, a great reward, 

Has got a double portion ! 

Auld, cantie Coil may count the day, 

As annual it returns. 
The third of Libra's equal sway, 

That gave another Burns, 
With future rhymes, an' other times, 

To emulate his sire ; 
To sing auld Coil in nobler style 

With more poetic fire. 

Ye powers of peace, and peaceful song, 

Look down with gracious eyes, 
And bless auld Coila large and long 

With multiplying joys. 
Long may she stand to prop the land, 

The flow'r of ancient nations ; 
And Burnses spring, her fame to sing, 

To endless generations I 



THE CATS LIKE KITCHEN. 

The cats like kitchen ; 

The dogs like broo ; 
The lasses like the lads weel, 

And th' auld wives too. 

Chorus. 
And we're a' noddin*, 

Nid, nid, noddin', 
We're a' noddin' fou at e'en. 



TRAGIC FRAGMENT. 225 



TRAGIC FRAGMENT. 

All devil as I am, a damned wretch, 

A harden'd, stubborn, unrepenting villain, 

Still my heart melts at human wretchedness ; 

And with sincere tho' unavailing sighs 

I view the helpless children of distress. 

With tears of indignation I behold th' oppressor 

Eejoicing in the honest man's destruction. 

Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime. 

Even you, ye helpless crew, I pity you ; 

Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity ; 

Ye poor, despis'd, abandon' d vagabonds. 

Whom Vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to Euin. 

but for kind, tho' ill-requited friends, 

1 had been driven forth like you forlorn. 

The most detested, worthless wretch among you. 

O injur' d God ! Thy goodness has endow'd me 

With talents passing most of my compeers, 

Which I in just proportion have abus'd, 

As far surpassing other common villains, 

As Thou in natural parts hadst given me more. 



EXTEMPORE 

ON PASSING A LADY'S CARRIAGE [MRS. 
MARIA RIDDEL'S]. 

If you rattle along like your mistress's tongue, 

Your speed will out-rival the dart : 
But, a fly for your load, you'll break down on the road, 

If your stuff be as rotten' s her heart. 



EPITAPH ON WILLIAM NICOL. 

Ye maggots, feast on Nicol's brain, 
For few sic feasts ye've gotten ; 

And fix your claws in Nicol's heart, 
For de'il a bit o't's rotten. 



ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE 

SENT THE AUTHOR BY A TAILOR. 

What ails ye now, ye lousie bitch. 
To thresh my back at sic a pitch ? 
p 



226 ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE. 



Losh, man, hae mercy wi' your natch, 
Your bodkin's bauld — 

I didna suffer ha'f sae much 

Frae Daddie Auld. 

What tho' at times, when I grow crouse, 
I gi'e their wames a random pouse. 
Is that enough for you to souse 

Your servant sae ? 
Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-loose, 

An' jag-the-flea. 

King David o' poetic brief 

Wrought 'mang the lasses such mischief 

As fiU'd his after life wi' grief 

An' bloody rants. 
An' yet he's ranked amang the chief 

0' lang-syne saunts. 

And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants. 
My wicked rhymes an' drucken rants, 
I'll gi'e auld cloven Clooty's haunts 

An unco slip yet. 
An' snugly sit amang the saunts 

At Davie's hip yet. 

But fegs, the Session says I maun 

Gae fa' upo' anither plan 

Than garren lasses cowp the cran 

Clean heels owre body, 
And sairly thole their mither's ban 

Afore the howdy. 

This leads me on to tell for sport 
How I did wi' the Session sort. 
Auld Clinkum at the inner port 

Cried three times, * Robin ! 
Come hither, lad, an' answer for't — 

Ye're blam'd for jobbin'.' 

Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on, 
An' snoov'd awa' before the Session — 
I made an open, fair confession — 

I scorn'd to lie ; 
An' syne Mess John, beyond expression, 

Fell foul o' me. 

A fornicator-loun he call'd me, 

An' said my fau't frae bliss expell'd me ; 

I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me, 

' But what the matter ? ' 
Quo' I, * I fear, unless ye geld me, 

I'll ne'er be better.' 



ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE. 121 

* Geld you ! ' quo* he, * and whatf or no ? 
If that your right hand, leg -or toe, 
Should ever prove your spiritual foe, 

You should remember 
To cut it aff, an' whatfor no 

Your dearest member?' 

* Na, na,' quo' I, ' I'm no for that, 
Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't ; 
I'd rather suffer for my fau't 

A hearty flewit. 
As sair owre hip as ye can draw't, 

Tho' I should rue it. 

* Or gin ye like to end the bother, 
To please us a', I've just ae ither. 
When next wi' yon lass I foregather, 

Whate'er betide it, 
I'll frankly gi'e her't a' thegither. 

An' let her guide it.' 
But, Sir, this pleas' d them warst ava, 
An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw 
I said, * Gude night,' and cam' awa 

And left the Session ; 
I saw they were resolved a' 

On my oppression. 



EXTEMPORE LINES, 

IN ANSWER TO A CARD FROM AN INTIMATE FRIEND 
OF BURNS, WISHING HIM TO SPEND AN HOUR 
AT A TAVERN. 

The King's most humble servant I 

Can scarcely spare a minute ; 
But I'll be wi' ye by an' bye ; 

Or else the Deil's be in it. 



My bottle is my holy pool. 

That heals the wounds o' care an' dool, 

And pleasure is a wanton trout. 

An' ye drink it ye'll find him out. 



LINES 

WRITTEN EXTEMPORE IN A LADY'S POCKET-BOOK. 
[MISS KENNEDY, SISTER-IN-LAW OF GAVIN 
HAMILTON.] 

Grant me, indulgent Heaven, that I may live 
To see the miscreants feel the pain they give ; 



228 LINES WRITTEN EXTEMPORE, 



Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air, 
Till slave and despot be but things which were. 



THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND. 

Cubs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life, 
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife ! 
Who has no will but by her high permission ; 
Who has not sixpence but in her possession ; 
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell ; 
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. 
Were such the wife had fallen to my part, 
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart : 
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, 
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse bitch. 



EPITAPH ON A HENPECK'D 
COUNTRY SQUIRE. 

As father Adam first was fool'd 
(A case that's still too common,) 

Here lies a man a woman rul'd — 
The Devil rul'd the woman. 



EPIGRAM ON SAID OCCASION, 

Death, hadst thou but spar'd his life 
Whom we this day lament ! 

We freely wad exchang'd the wife, 
And a' been weel content. 

Ev'n as he is, cauld in his graff. 

The swap we yet will do't ; 
Take thou the carlin's carcase aff, 

Thou'se get the saul to boot. 



ANOTHER. 

One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell, 
When depriv'd of her husband she lov'd so well. 
In respect for the love and affection he'd show'd her, 
She reduc'd him to dust and she drank up the powder. 

But Queen Netherplace, of a diff'rent complexion. 
When call'd on to order the fun'ral direction. 
Would have eat her dead lord, on a slender pretence, 
Not to show her respect, but— to save the expense. 



VERSES WRITTEN AT CARRON. 229 



VERSES 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT 
CARRON. 

We came na here to view your warks 

In hopes to be mair wise, 
But only, lest we gang to hell, 

It may be nae surprise. 

But when we tirl'd at your door, 
Your porter dought na hear us ; 

Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come, 
Your billy Satan sair us. 



LINES 

ON BEING ASKED WHY GOD MADE MISS DAVIES 
SO LITTLE AND MRS. ... SO LARGE. 

Written on a Pant of Glass in the Inn at Moffat. 

Ask why God made the gem so small, 
An' why so huge the granite ? 

Because God meant mankind should set 
The higher value on it. 



EPIGRAM 

WRITTEN AT INVERARAY. 

Whoe'er he be that sojourns here, 

I pity much his case. 
Unless he come to wait upon 

The Lord their God, his grace. 

There's naething here but Highland pride, 
And Highland scab and hunger ; 

If Providence has sent me here, 
'Twas surely in his anger. 



A TOAST 

GIVEN AT A MEETING OF THE DUMFRIESSHIRE 
VOLUNTEERS, HELD TO COMMEMORATE THE 
ANNIVERSARY OF RODNEY'S VICTORY, APRIL 
12th, 1782. 

Instead of a Song, boys, I'll give you a Toast, — 
Here' s the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost : 



230 A TOAST. 



That we lost, did I say ? nay, by heaven, that we found, 
For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. 
The next in succession, I'll give you the king. 
Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing ! 
And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitution, 
As built on the base of the great Eevolution ; 
And longer with Politics not to be crammed. 
Be Anarchy cursed, and be Tyranny damn'd ; 
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal, 
May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial. 



VERSES ADDRESSED TO J. RANKINE, 

ON HIS WRITING TO THE POET THAT A GIRL IN 
THAT PART OF THE COUNTRY WAS WITH CHILD 
TO HIM. 

I AM a keeper of the law 

In some sma' points, altho' not a' ; 

Some people tell me gin I fa', 

Ae way or ither. 
The breaking of ae point, tho' sma', 

Breaks a' thegither. 

I hae been in for't ance or twice. 
And winna say owre far for thrice, 
Yet never met with that surprise 

That broke my rest. 
But now a rumour's like to rise, 

A whaup's i' the nest. 



ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT 
OF LORD GALLOWAY. 

What dost thou in that mansion fair ? 

Flit, Galloway, and find 
Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, 

The picture of thy mind ! 

ON THE SAME. 

No Stewart art thou, Galloway, 

The Stewarts all were brave ; 
Besides, the Stewarts were but fools, 

Not one of them a knave. 

ON THE SAME. 
Bkiqht ran thy line, Galloway, 

Thro' many a far-fam'd sire ! 
Bo ran the far-fam'd Roman way, 

So ended in a mire ! 



ON SEEING LORD GALLOWA Y'S SEA T, 231 

TO THE SAME, 

ON THE AUTHOR BEING THREATENED WITH HIS 

RESENTMENT. 

Spaee me thy vengeance, Galloway, 

In quiet let me live : 
I ask no kindness at thy hand, 

For thou hast none to give. 



VERSES TO J. RANKINE. 

Ae day, as Death, that gruesome carl, 
Was driving to the tither warl' 
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad. 
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad ; 
Black gowns of each denomination. 
And thieves of every rank and station, 
From him that wears the star and garter, 
To him that wintles in a halter ; 
Asham'd himsel' to see the wretches. 
He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches, 
' By God, I'll not be seen behint them. 
Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them. 
Without at least ae honest man. 
To grace this damn'd infernal clan.' 
By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
* Lord God ! ' quoth he, ' I have it now. 
There's just the man I want, i' faith,' 
And quickly stoppit Kankine's breath. 



EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION, 

ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE. 

Searching auld wives' barrels, 

Och, hon ! the day ! 
That clarty barm should stain my laurels : 

But — what'll ye say ? 
These movin' things, ca'd wives and weans, 
Wad move the very heart o' stanes I 



POVERTY. 

In politics if thou wou'dst mix. 
And mean thy fortunes be. 

Bear this in mind— be deaf and blind, 
Let great folks hear and see. 



232 ON A SCHOOLMASTER, 



ON HEARING THAT THERE WAS 

FALSEHOOD IN REV. DR. B ^'S 

VERY LOOKS. 

That there is falsehood in his looks 

I must and will deny ; 
They say their master is a knave — 

And sure they do not lie. 



ON A SCHOOLMASTER 

IN CLEISH PARISH, FIFESHIRE. 

Here lie Willie Michie's banes ; 

Satan, when ye tak him, 
Gie him the schoolin' of your weans, 

For clever deils he'll mak them ! 



LINES 

WRITTEN AND PRESENTED TO MRS. KEMBLE, ON 
SEEING HER IN THE CHARACTER OF " YARICO," 
IN THE DUMFRIES THEATRE, 1794. 

Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief 

Of Moses and his rod ; 
At Yarico's sweet notes of grief 

The rock with tears had flow'd. 



LINES. 

I MUBDER hate by field or flood, 

Tho' glory's name may screen us ; 
In wars at hame I'll spend my blood, 

Life-giving war of Venus. 
The deities that I adore 

Are social Peace and Plenty. 
I'm better pleased to make one more 

Than be the death of twenty. 



LINES 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW, AT THE KING'S ARMS 
TAVERN, DUMFRIES. 

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering 
'Gainst poor Excisemen? give the cause a hearing; 



LINES WRITTEN AT DUMFRIES, 233 



What are your landlords' rent-rolls? taxing ledgers ; 
What premiers, what? even Monarchs' mighty 

gangers ; 
Nay, what are priests, those seeming godly wise men? 
What are they, pray, but spiritual Excisemen ? 



LINES 

WRITTEN ON THE WINDOW OF THE GLOBE TAVERN, 
DUMFRIES. 

The graybeard. Old Wisdom, may boast of his 
treasures. 

Give me with gay Folly to live : 
I grant him his calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures. 

But Folly has raptures to give. 



EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF 
SESSION. 

Tune — ' Killiecranhie,^ 

LORD ADVOCATE. 

He clenched his pamphlets in his fist. 

He quoted and he hinted, 
Till in a declamation-mist 

His argument he tint it : 
He gaped for't, he graped for't. 

He land it was awa, man ; 
But what his common sense came short 

He eked it out wi' law, man. 

MR. ERSKINE. 
Collected Harry stood a wee. 

Then open'd out his arm, man ; 
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e, 

And ey'd the gathering storm, man; 
Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail, 

Or torrents owre a linn, man ; 
The bench sae wise lift up their eyes, 

Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man. 

LINES 
WRITTEN UNDER THE PICTURE OF MISS BURNS. 

Cease, ye prudes, your envious railing, 
Lovely Burns has charms — confess : 

True it is, she had one failing- 
Had a woman ever less ? 



234 ON MISS J. SCOTT, OF AYR. 



ON MISS J. SCOTT, OF AYR. 

Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times 
Been, Jeannie Scott, as thou art, 

The bravest heart on English ground 
Had yielded like a coward. 

EPIGRAM ON CAPTAIN FRANCIS 
GROSE, 

THE CELEBRATED ANTIQUARY. 

The Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying, 

So whip ! at the summons, old Satan came flying ; 

But when he approach'd where poor Francis lay 

moaning, 
And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groaning, 
Astonish'd! confounded! cry'd Satan, 'By God, 
I'll want 'im, ere I take such a damnable load.' 

EPIGRAM ON ELPHINSTONE'S 

TRANSLATION OF MARTIAUS 

EPIGRAMS. 

O THOU whom Poetry abhors, 
Whom Prose had turned out of doors, 
Heard'st thou yon groan ? — proceed no further, 
'Twas laurel'd Martial calling ' Murther.' 

EPITAPH ON A COUNTRY LAIRD, 

NOT QUITE SO WISE AS SOLOMON. 

Bless Jesus Christ, Cardoness, 

With grateful lifted eyes, 
Who said that not the soul alone. 

But body too, must rise : 
For had he said, ' The soul alone 

From death I will deliver,' 
Alas, alas ! Cardoness, 

Then thou hadst slept for ever ! 

EPITAPH ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

Below these stanes lie Jamie's banes : 

Death, it's my opinion 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin' bitch 

Into thy dark dominion ! 



EPITAPH ON WEE JOHNNY. 235 



EPITAPH ON WEE JOHNNY. 

Hie Jacet Wee Johnny. 

Whoe'er thou art, reader, know 
That Death has murder 'd Johnny ! 

And here his body lies fu' low — 
For saul he ne'er had ony. 



EPITAPH ON A CELEBRATED 
RULING ELDER. 

Here souter Hood in Death does sleep ; 

To Hell if he's gane thither, 
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep. 

He'll haud it weel thegither. 



EPITAPH FOR ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. 

Know thou, stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name, 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



EPITAPH FOR GAVIN HAMILTON, 

ESQ. 

The poor man weeps — here Gavin sleeps, 
Whom canting wretches blam'd : 

But with such as he, where'er he be, 
May I be sav'd or damn'd ! 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 

Let him draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a Bard of rustic song. 

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among. 

That weekly this area throng, 

0, pass not by ! 
But, with a frater-feeling strong, 

Here heave a sigh. 



236 A BARD'S EPITAPH. 



Is there a man whose judgment clear 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs himself life's mad career, 

Wild as the wave ? 
Here pause — and thro' the starting tear 

Survey this grave. 

The poor Inhabitant below 

Was quick to learn and wise to know, 

And keenly felt the friendly glow 

And softe,r flame ; 
But thoughtless follies laid him low 

And stain'd his name ! 

Beader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars Fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole 

In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious self-control 

Is Wisdom's root. 



EPITAPH ON MY FATHER. 

YE, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 
Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend 1 

Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 
The tender father and the gen'rous friend. 

The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; 

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride ; 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; 

' For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side.' 



EPITAPH ON JOHN DOVE, 

INNKEEPER, MAUCHLINE. 

Hebe lies Johnny Pidgeon ; 

What was his religion ? 
Whae'er desires to ken. 

To some other warl' 

Maun follow the carl, 
For here Johnny Pidgeon had nan©. 

Strong ale was ablution, — 

Small beer persecution, 
A dram was memento mori ; 

But a full flowing bowl 

Was the saving his soul, 
And port was celestial glory. 



EPITAPH ON JOHN BUSHB K 237 



EPITAPH ON JOHN BUSHBY, 

WRITER IN DUMFRIES. 

Heee lies John Bushby, honest man ! 
Cheat him, devil, if you can. 

EPITAPH ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE. 

Lament him, Mauchline husbands a', 

He aften did assist ye ; 
For had ye stay'd whole weeks awa, 

Your wives they ne'er had miss'd ye. 

Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye pass 

To school in bands thegither, 
tread ye lightly on his grass, 

Perhaps he was your father. 

EPIGRAM. 



When , deceased, to the devil went down, 

'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's own crown ; 
* Thy fool's head,' quoth Satan, * that crown shall 

wear never, 
I grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so clever.' 



LINES INSCRIBED ON A PLATTER. 

My blessings on ye, honest wife, 

I ne'er was here before : 
Ye've wealth o' gear for spoon and knife — 

Heart could not wish for more. 

Heaven keep you clear of sturt and strife 

Till far ayont four score, 
And by the Lord o' death and life, 

I'll ne'er gae by your door ! 



TO 



Your billet, sir, I grant receipt 
Wi' you I'll canter ony gate, 
Though 'twere a trip to yon blue warl', 
Whare birkies march on burnin' marl : 
Then, sir, God willing, I'll attend ye. 
And to his goodness I commend ye, 

E. Burns. 



238 ON MR. M'MURDO, 



ON MR. M^MURDO. 

Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day, 

No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray ; 

No wrinkle furrow' d by the hand of care, 

Nor even sorrow add one silver hair ! 

Oh ! may no son the father's honour stain, 

Nor ever daughter give the mother pain. 



TO A LADY 

WHO WAS LOOKING UP THE TEXT DURING 

SERMON. 

Fair maid, you need not take the hint, 

Nor idle texts pursue : 
'Twas gxiilty sinners that he meant — 
Not angels such as you 1 

IMPROMPTU. 

How daur ye ca' me howlet-faced, 

Ye ugly, glow'ring spectre ; 
My face was but the keekin' glass. 

An' there ye saw your picture. 

EPITAPH ON A PERSON NICKNAMED 
"THE MARQUIS," 

WHO DESIRED BURNS TO WRITE ONE ON HIM. 

Here lies a mock Marquis, whose titles were shamm'd. 
If ever he rise, it will be to be damn'd. 

EPITAPH ON WALTER R [RIDDEL]. 

Sic a reptile was Wat, 

Sic a miscreant slave. 
That the worms ev'n damn'd him 

When laid in his grave. 

* In his flesh there's a famine,* 

A starv'd reptile cries ; 

* An' his heart is rank poison,' 

Another replies. 

ON HIMSELF. 

Here comes Burns 

On Rosinante ; 
She's d poor. 

But he's d canty ! 



GRACE BEFORE MEAT. 239 



GRACE BEFORE MEAT. 

O Lord, when hunger pinches sore, 

Do Thou stand us in need, 
And send us from Thy bounteous store 

A tup or wether head. Amen. 



ON COMMISSARY GOLDIE'S BRAINS. 

Lord, to account who dares Thee call, 
Or e'er dispute Thy pleasure ? 

Else why within so thick a wall 
Enclose so poor a treasure ? 



IMPROMPTU 

ON AN INNKEEPER NAMED BACON, WHO INTRUDED 
HIMSELF INTO ALL COMPANIES. 

At Brownhill we always get dainty good cheer, 
And plenty of bacon each day in the year ; 
We've all things that's nice, and mostly in season, 
But why always Bacon — come, give me a reason ? 



ADDRESSED TO A LADY 

WHOM THE AUTHOR FEARED HE HAD OFFENDED. 

Kusticity's ungainly form 

May cloud the highest mind ; 
But when the heart is nobly warm, 

The good excuse will find. 

Propriety's cold, cautious rules 

Warm fervour may o'erlook; 
But spare poor sensibility 

The ungentle, harsh rebuke. 



TO MR. MACKENZIE, SURGEON, 
MAUCHLINE. 

Fkiday first's the day appointed 
By the Eight Worshipful anointed, 

To hold our grand procession : 
To get a blad o' Johnnie's morals, 
And taste a swatch o' Manson's barrels 

I' the way of our profession. 



240 TO MR, MACKENZIE. 



The Master and the Brotherhood 

Would a' be glad to see you ; 
For me, I would be mair than proud 
To share the mercies wi' you. 
If Death, then, wi' skaith, then. 
Some mortal heart is hechtin', 
Inform him, and storm him. 
That Saturday you'll fecht him. 

Robert Burns. 
Mossgiel, An. M. 5790. 



TO A PAINTER. 

Dear , I'll gie ye some advice, 

Ye'll tak' it no uncivil : 
You shouldna paint at angels mair, 

But try and paint the devil. 

To paint an angel's kittle wark, 
Wi' Auld Nick there's less danger ; 

You'll easy draw a weel-kent face 
But no sae weel a stranger. 



LINES WRITTEN ON A TUMBLER. 

You're welcome, Willie Stewart ; 

You're welcome, Willie Stewart ; 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May 

That's half sae welcome's thou art. 

Come, bumpers high, express our joy, 

The bowl we maun renew it ; 
The tappit-hen, gae bring her ben 

To welcome Willie Stewart. 

May foes be Strang, and friends be slack, 

Ilk action may he rue it ; 
May woman on him turn her back 

That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart ! 



ON MR. W. CRUIKSHANK, 

OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDINBURG|J» 

Honest Will to heaven is gane, 
And mony shall lament him ; 

His faults they a' in Latin lay, 
In English nane e'er kent them. 



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